Gentle Is the Mouth of the Lion, Soft is the Heart of the Wolf
by Pale Treasures
Summary: He is easily the most important person in her life now, the one she feels most grateful for. He can't begin to imagine life without her. And now that they're together, they'll fight more fiercely than ever to make sure they never lose each other - regardless of what's to come. Sansa/Tyrion. Slightly AU. Discontinued after ch 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Gentle Is the Mouth of the Lion, Soft is the Heart of the Wolf**

**Disclaimer: **Nothing's mine. _Game of Thrones_ belongs to George R. R. Martin, HBO, David Benioff, D. B. Weiss, etc. Not mine. I'm just borrowing the characters.

**Rating: **T for some language

**Author's Note:** May be terribly OOC, but I hope not. :\ I portrayed Sansa and Tyrion (or tried to) the way they are in the show. I haven't read the books. If you have any criticisms, please be gentle.

* * *

_I don't care about anything but you, and that's enough for the present. I want you to be happy-not to think of anything sad; only to feel that I'm near you and I love you. Why should there be pain? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That's not the deepest thing; there's something deeper._ - Henry James

* * *

Time, and all she had been taught about it, had lost its meaning since she had arrived in King's Landing. As a little girl, they had told her that time was a mysterious presence, sometimes gentle, sometimes cunning, fooling those who believed they held it within their grasp, and often cruel. They had spoken to her of the way it could lose all meaning and influence in a moment of great happiness or during a period of severe trial, until someone could fully lose awareness of it. Things that had meant little to her then, and that she hadn't bothered to understand. But now, she did understand. Now, she finally saw what they'd meant.

Time was no more. It had lost its hold on her. She had ceased to notice its presence. The world continued to spin emptily on, without the need for Time to support it and fix it in place. Time was unnecessary and whatever misfortunes were operated on people – on their lives, on their fortunes, on their looks – was not the product of its workings, but of something else, more obscure and far more sinister than Time could ever be. Now she understood.

She thought of her life in the North, which past and recent occurrences had forced into a dim memory, of her family, whose faces had, to her silent grief, become equally blurry, and which she would never see again. She thought of Arya, the only one who, for some reason, retained a defiantly clear and distinct face. She had not treated Arya well – when they were growing up, she had thought it impossible, and did not much linger on the notion that she _should_ try to make the effort. Now, she regretted it. Would Arya ever know this, or sense it, from wherever she was? Did she still think of her, Sansa, as well? What would they say to each other if they saw each other again – or were they already far too different, too haunted, for words? Regardless, she wished she could beg for her forgiveness, and say that she loved her. That she was no longer the same person and would not treat her so vilely. They were sisters, their blood had exactly the same colour, consistency, the exact same essence – and, Sansa had learned, that was far too precious and significant for silly spats.

"I was a foolish child, then," she said aloud, to the empty room. "A spoiled little girl. I know better now."

But she had no one to make it better to. No one to hear her words or her pleas for forgiveness. No one to shower her love, repressed and almost forgotten, on. She was alone. Or... she had been. The thought came slowly to her mind. But not quite, not anymore. The very notion was strange and would have filled her with fear and repulsion in the past. To think that _he_ would end up being the one she would find herself relying on. But she no longer thought of things that way; she felt no fear and no disgust anymore. Perhaps she had never truly had.

Tyrion Lannister had proved himself to be very different from what she'd expected. She could not ever forget the comfort he had given her when she'd sorely needed it – and which he continued to give, now that her entire family was, for all she knew, dead. Yes, even Arya might be. She had never known such a feeling in all her life, not even when she was small, still in the loving, protective arms of her family. She remembered being little and burrowing in the embrace of her father and mother after a nightmare. It had felt like the greatest feeling in the world, back then, the deepest, most indescribable relief. But it had not been – and still it wasn't, in spite of how much she missed them. _This_ was. _This_, which she couldn't quite describe. She unwrapped the memories every night, slowly, as though afraid of shattering them into pieces, and savoured them carefully. One might think it was the quiet desperation of her situation that had led her to it. She was still, despite all she had gone through, too young and green to ever think of accessing it that way. But she knew that it wasn't despair. It wasn't loneliness. It was something else.

She had no fear of it, as she might have in the past. She did not doubt it, at least not on her part. How could she mistake the all-encompassing feeling of warmth that took over her now, whenever she was with him, after all he had done for her? How could one mistake what looked like genuine concern and affection after so long living in fear and humiliation, knowing she was next to nothing to those who held her captive? No, she could not doubt it. It was a warmth akin to the feeling that had bound her to her kin, but with the slightest note of a longing more acute than any she had ever felt for them, even in her moments of greatest distress. She did not know what name to call it; it seemed beyond a name, something very new, still untried, somewhat strange. But that it was sincere, and that she felt it, and was ever so grateful to him, and could no longer regard him with fear and suspicion... it was true. Perhaps the truest thing that ever could have bloomed to life in this cruel place.

* * *

Margaery was now busy with plans and preparations for her wedding to Joffrey, and even though Sansa could barely attempt to understand that, and Margaery's apparent cheerfulness over the prospect, without being seized by breathless horror, she let her be, and quite enjoyed her solitary walks. She needed them more than ever. She did not think even Margaery could have helped her with her secret uncertainties. She had the feeling, ungrateful and disloyal as it might be, that she wouldn't understand. It was better that she remained alone, then.

The day was very warm and sunny, and the flowers blossomed in a profusion of colour so violently beautiful and vivid that it almost hurt. The sea sparkled, clear azure, like something out of a dream, just ahead of her, meshing with the tone of the sky overhead. She could not cease to wonder at the fact that a place so treacherous and unsettling could be so stunning – one could almost feel safe in it, happy in it. Of course she was no longer prey to that illusion.

Fully lost in her contemplations, she would not have sensed anyone approaching, regardless of how close to her they might be. She was staring at the sea, her gaze beginning to blur, when a familiar voice startled her out of her thoughts.

"My lady Sansa," she turned to see Tyrion bowing with a dramatic flourish before her.

She curtseyed, restraining a giggle of amusement. "My lord."

"I hope I have not interrupted, in case you wished to be alone with your thoughts?"

"No," she found herself saying, almost blushing at her contrary thoughts about both Margaery and Tyrion. "I would be glad of the company."

"Then, I shall be glad to offer it." He stepped closer to her and the two watched the sea in silence for a moment.

"It's a beautiful day," Sansa broke the companionable silence half-heartedly.

"Indeed, it is." Tyrion turned sideways to look at her. "Although your visage, my lady, if I may point out, does not in any way mirror your sentiments."

Sansa smiled weakly at his florid language. "Forgive me. I've been thinking of things I shouldn't."

"May I ask what things?" his expression was intent and, if she was not wrong in the assessment, concerned.

"I've been remembering my sister lately."

"Ah," Tyrion said quietly.

"She may be dead, for all I know, although I feel that she isn't. But she might as well be, because it's unlikely that I'll ever see her again. I've been thinking that I would like to apologize for the horrid things I did to her as a child. She was difficult to handle, but I regret it now. I wish I could see her again, and tell her that I miss her, and that I hope she is well." Her voice faded into a whisper and her eyes returned to the extension of brilliant blue ahead.

"I'm sorry that you feel that way," Tyrion offered, and his voice, usually sardonic, even if pleasantly so, at least with her, was soft and earnest. "We all do foolish things when young, often to the ones we love, things we will come to regret afterwards. Your sister would feel the same way about you, I dare say, and I wager she would say a great many things to you too, if she could." Sansa bit her lip, the memory of Arya cutting deeper into her heart, mixed with the strange, half glad, half painful feeling that rose in her breast at Tyrion's words.

"I have no doubt that it's a great burden to bear, even though I, in truth, wouldn't know much about it. My own sister would quite happily see me absent, never to return, or dead, and I must say that the feeling is mutual." Sansa smiled a little wider, but barely. "Forgive me; this is clearly the wrong thing to be saying. I'm afraid I have no good advice to give, and I don't want to insult you again by trying. Believe me, though, when I say that it pains me to see you grieved. I hope you will feel better soon."

"Thank you," she whispered.

He continued to stare intently at her, searching her face for something she was not certain of. She could clearly perceive the earnestness in his eyes, however, the distressed but determined set of the lines in his face.

"I am... truly sorry... for what has happened to your mother and brother. I wish I could have done something to prevent it, but I knew nothing of it until it was far too late."

"It's alright. I believe you. There's nothing anyone of us could have done," Sansa replied, her voice growing thick with tears. She blinked and averted her gaze from his intent one.

"I did _not_ agree with it, you know," he whispered fiercely.

She gave a tiny nod. "I know."

He nodded too. There was a moment of silence. Sansa could barely decipher her own thoughts during the interlude of the conversation, and did not attempt to guess his, for she would not begin to know how to.

"I have made for dreadful company so far," Tyrion resumed, at length, eyes widening in mock mortification. "Shall we go for a walk, and I'll try to redeem myself meanwhile?"

Sansa's laugh was slightly throaty with the not yet fully dispelled tears. "Yes, gladly."

They slowly walked about the gardens, whose luxuriant foliage filtered the golden sunlight and spilled it in abstract shapes across the walls and the floor. The comfortable silence returned, and Sansa's dispirited thoughts were replaced by more pressing sensations. Her heart was racing just a little more than ordinary, something that only happened whenever she was in Tyrion's presence. When had that started? She could not say, but it certainly hadn't always been that way. She felt the half painful, half pleasurable pulse of her heart underneath her corset, seeming to increase its throbbing the more she dwelled on it. A sliver of fear crept up her back. It was foolish of her to allow her feelings to get so out of hand. Despite what she felt, and hoped for, Tyrion surely could not feel _that way_ about her, an unremarkable, somewhat stupid girl. She was aware that no one in King's Landing was in awe of her intellect – it was only her looks that were commented on, it was only her looks everyone was interested in. Her looks and her name. Aside from that, she was worthless. Tyrion, for all his foibles and weaknesses, and the mistakes he had made in life, was a man of great intelligence and wit, a man who had seen and knew far more about people and life than she would ever be able to boast of. Everyone said he was ugly, and she had thought so too, once, but now she was unable to tell herself that. Whenever she glanced at him, she felt only gratitude and tenderness, and pleasure that he was near her. They were a very uneven match. No one who was the slightest bit sensible would see or believe any sign of fondness from either party. Yet, she could not care what the sensible said. She knew that he was special to her. And she liked to believe... _tried_ to believe... that he liked her too.

She chanced a sideways glance at him as they strolled. The old familiar warmth swelled in her heart and she had to bite back a smile. The admonishing thoughts flew from her mind. There was only peaceful contentedness. No, she would heed to her heart. She would not ruin this. It was everything she had, and probably would ever have.

"I give you leave to choose the subject of conversation, my lady," Tyrion said in a grand manner, breaking the silence and making her laugh. "For I very much fear that I might ruin things again and give you cause to run off in despair, and I would not want that for the world. So, what shall we discuss? Shall we elaborate on the wonders of the current climate? Or perhaps you would prefer to discuss the vast variety of vegetation we have about us? Or, better yet, shall we talk speculatively about the people passing us by – because, you know, they will undoubtedly do the same about us, if they're not doing so already? You have quite an accurate perception, I've seen that – it always makes this sort of games much more fun, playing with someone like that."

Sansa giggled. "You're cruel, my lord."

Tyrion's eyes widened in faux shock. "Not at all. I merely have an aptitude for speaking unpleasant truths."

"Many would still see that as cruel."

"And how would _you_ see it?" he wondered casually.

Her heart raced a little more. The words were slow to come. "I don't think that you're cruel."

"Ah, you hesitated there," he pointed out cheerfully, but his eyes did not match his tone – they were alert and grave, the eyes of someone who expects a disappointment at any second.

"But I meant what I said," Sansa replied, her voice thick as her throat seemed to close up. "I never thought you cruel. I thought many things about you... _bad_ things, wrong things, but I could never say that you were cruel. Never to me. You were always very kind, and I'm grateful, I really am."

There was an almost unbearably long pause.

"I'm glad that you think so. I would not have liked us to misunderstand each other," Tyrion said at last, in a voice she barely heard. A pang of ice struck her chest – would he tell her she was very much mistaken if he knew what was going through her mind? Would he think her a poor, deluded child?

"I would not have liked that either," she murmured pitifully.

He turned to look up at her and smiled, although the smile failed to imbue its influence on his eyes. "There I am again – making everything worse when I should be trying to cheer you up. There, I will not utter a single word from this moment onwards. I will leave it to you to lead the conversation – it's clear you have the greater talent for that. Consider me gagged." He nodded very solemnly, pressing his lips together. She could not help but smile.

"I wasn't offended by what you said," she ventured, unable to help herself. "I know that you didn't mean any harm by it. I don't mind it when you talk, I never have."

Tyrion's farcical expression for her benefit softened into one of grave surprise and wonder. He grew pensive and did not speak again. But she sensed that she had touched a nerve somewhere – struck a chord that she knew nothing about, and would never have thought of if she hadn't been made to marry him – and that she would be left to imagine what ideas, what feelings she had elicited, by reaching into that place she knew nothing of, the innermost heart, with its deepest affections and longings, of Tyrion Lannister.

* * *

It had never, _ever_, been meant to turn out like this. He had never entertained the slightest beginning of an inkling of the notion, both before and after the wedding. He would never have guessed that this would happen, and he would have laughed in the face of anyone who had tried to convince him of his error. He had never regarded her in any way other than a sweet child, who deserved pity for her situation in life – a situation his family had greatly, if not completely, helped to create –, and, unlike many would have thought, he did not need to try hard at all to keep seeing her in that light. He genuinely had no lubricious intentions towards her, or any of any other kind – he felt nothing towards her except for respect and friendship. He _liked_ her – he had intended to make sure they both would be able to endure being married to each other in the pleasantest manner possible.

So when had it changed? How? She had never behaved in a different manner towards him, and he was quite sure he had never treated her any differently at any point. He tried to wrack his brain, to _remember_ – he poured back into the past with a critical, almost maniacal eye, scouring for the slightest hint of a difference, for anything that might be construed as a sign of affection on both ends, but came up empty. No, there was no difference. It had simply happened, it seemed, unbeknownst to him. It was mortifying to even admit it. But he was past the point of trying to hammer denial into his mind – the Seven knew he'd tried.

But no longer denying it didn't mean that he would _share_ it with anyone – especially with her. No, that could never happen. He would scare her away. He would make her start looking at him with disgust and suspicion again, feelings that had been strangely absent from her eyes and general attitude for quite a while, now, but which would surely return very swiftly if she had any inkling of what he felt.

How had things gotten to this? How had she managed to get to him? No, there was no point in trying to search for explanations. He admitted it. But that didn't mean he had to like it. Sansa was something far more precious to him – had been even before... _this_ – than someone to fuck and to get children into and to own. He wanted to cultivate gentler, tender feelings towards her. He wanted to be delicate, as she so fully deserved. He would not have her think he was anything like his cunt of a nephew. He most certainly did not want to regard Sansa as someone who could make his cock stir – no, by the Seven, no. He wouldn't spoil her like that. But what could he say of his princely resolutions now? He still didn't wish to hurt her – never. Not by anything he ever said, or did, or by anything his family ever said or did, if he could help it. He wanted to make her happy, but would that ever be possible for someone who had gone through so much during such a short amount of time like Sansa? Perhaps not. But he could – _wanted_ to – relieve her pain, if only by degrees, he wanted to make her smile. She seemed to enjoy his company. She was no longer reluctant or afraid of him. But he could not delude himself into thinking that was because of him. Of course not. How could it be? Especially someone like Sansa, who had blossomed into a beauty very few could rival. Not that he believed she would ever be of such an inclination – there was his sister for that, thankfully – but she, even at present, would be able to have any man she wanted for the taking. He couldn't think of it impartially. Jealousy flared to life inside him, brutally severing his train of thought, and he had to do his utmost to subdue it.

That much he knew. He didn't stand a chance. But he would _still_ do right by her. If this was the taste of happiness he was meant to have for the rest of his life, so be it. He was selfish – and desperate – enough to seize it and hold onto it, never to let it go. Yet he couldn't even be happy they were married, because it so clearly meant nothing to his hopes. Someone that looked like _him_ couldn't hope to win someone over, not even if he bid his time for a thousand years. Love – _Sansa's_ love, her smile, her company, for as long as he was alive to receive them, were just a dream. He would cling to what he had and be thankful for it. He would respect her wishes and take her maidenhead when it couldn't possibly be helped anymore. He would try to get to know her better, and to keep making her smile, and to _keep_ her by his side. And even that was dangerous. The women he had loved hadn't been better off for it. Perhaps it was for the best that he did not try for any more than what he had, and even tried to keep his distance, if he could manage it.

Cersei – and perhaps even Jaime – would no doubt mercilessly mock him if they knew his feelings. His father – he could just picture it – would be silent for a very long time, and perhaps, when he finally deigned to speak, call him a moron and a fool for letting _any_ feelings get the better of him, but he might also just say that, if that was any help to him in deflowering the Stark girl and getting a son in her, all the better, he was welcome to it.

Bastards and wolves, the lot of them. He had never regretted the fact that Sansa had been dragged into his family more. If they had any children – sons or not, he didn't care – at least they would have her blood. That was the first great sign of hope for them, if there was any.

He sighed and pushed back from the table. He very much wished he could have emptied the whole decanter, but he didn't want to reach Sansa in their room reeking of wine. He was most unpleasantly _not_ drunk enough – the room didn't sway around him. His feelings pulsed still far too acutely for his taste. For her, and her alone, he had not tried to dull his misery. Much good it would do him.

"Pod," he drawled, without leaving his chair. The boy did not appear to listen. He called him back with far more impatience, and Pod finally entered the room and cleared the table with quick, expert hands.

"You're a good lad," he said, his dejection making him sentimental. He patted the bewildered boy on the shoulder. "I'll yet make a knight out of you."

"Yes, my lord," Pod replied obediently, still looking at him in confusion. Poor innocent boy, he never did seem to get used to his ways.

"I'm to bed. Good night." He tried to infuse his words with more normality than he felt.

"Good night, my lord."

He found himself taking twice the time to reach the room. Sansa would already be there, no doubt. Perhaps asleep. That might be for the best. He dragged himself through the overly familiar corridors. But, when he finally entered the room, he saw Sansa still awake, sitting in bed reading a book. The flickering candlelight illuminated her face by turns, giving it an unfamiliar, almost eerie quality he was not fond of. Patches of her hair glowed bright like flames where the light fell upon them.

"Good night, Sansa," he greeted her easily.

She seemed – was it just him? – nervous. "Good night, my—Tyrion."

"Still not tired?" he asked conversationally.

"Not yet."

There was certainly a loaded, odd atmosphere in the room. He could not imagine why. Had something happened to her while he had been away – something she wasn't telling him? Probing, he had learned, wasn't the way to go about things with Sansa. But he would still try to find out.

She kept her eyes closely fixed on the pages of her book while he undressed. They had begun to share the same bed, but there was no more to it. He now very much questioned the wisdom of such a decision, but did not try to move back into his settee, for fear of, somehow, if that was even possible, offending her. He climbed into bed and took care to sit a few inches apart from her, making certain he would not touch a hair of her head. The distance seemed to soothe her.

"Had a good day, today, Sansa?" he ventured, at length.

To his alarm, she gripped her book tighter. "Yes, I did."

"Anything out of the ordinary happened?"

"No, nothing." She did not meet his eyes.

He fell silent. He let the silence stretch infinitely on. She did not attempt to break it.

At long last, he sighed. "Good night, Sansa."

"Good night, Tyrion."

* * *

She had decided to forgo another walk in the gardens and to sit inside sewing. Walking in the sunshine had begun to remind her far too much of him. She could not begin to tell herself it was alright to have such associations, or to indulge freely in them. It was best that she did not make herself appear too idle, too. But she could not concentrate on her work. Stretching her legs would have worked better towards dispelling her agitation.

Her mind churned on and on and on. She could not forget the previous day. The subtle differences in his expression, the impression his earnest, wounded eyes had left in her, his questions – concerned, she could not force herself to doubt that – at night. And everything, little that it was, that had happened before that. Her heart began to flutter. Everything in her mind and previous experience with people told her not to submit to what she felt. Every pore in her body told her it was far too dangerous, and still far more foolish. But she could not help it. She trusted him. She could grasp almost nothing from him – read barely anything from him – then how could she possibly be able to feel that his feelings might just mirror hers... that, indeed, they _did_? How could she feel that she meant a great deal to him?

She did not know what made her think that. She could not pinpoint any precise moment. His interaction with her would seem quite ordinary to a dispassionate eye. She did not know how she knew that Tyrion loved her or why or how to justify that she felt it... only that she felt it. It was very strange. She had never known this was the way things worked. That guessing a man's feelings could be such a silent endeavour. Surely it could not be so easy. She had to be wrong. The most logical and appropriate and _right_ thing was that he did _not_ return her feelings. It was obvious. She had to be wrong.

"You seem troubled, my lady – your brow is furrowed. What are you thinking about?" the cheery voice of one of her ladies-in-waiting brought her back from her musings.

She blushed. "Nothing."

There was a giggle somewhere in the room. Sansa's head darted up at once, and she looked in the direction of the giggle testily.

"Forgive me, my lady," said the girl who had giggled meekly. "I did not mean to laugh at you."

They all resumed their sewing in silence.

"Pella, you have many admirers," Sansa began all of a sudden, addressing the girl who had first spoken. She wanted to bite her tongue as soon as she said the words. Saying what she was about to say would come back to haunt her; all the girls in the room would start to wonder and gossip, and it would not even be a day before those conjectures were spread, perhaps all over King's Landing. She almost shivered in horror. But it was too late. And she just _had_ to know. Pella was far more knowledgeable than her in such matters. She would give her the help she was desperately in need of.

Pella giggled. "I suppose I have, my lady," she replied proudly.

Sansa did not take her eyes off of her needlework, and tried to give her voice a nonchalant tone. "How do you know a man is interested in you, I wonder? I mean... that he _loves_ you?"

Pella giggled again, no doubt guessing everything, but, much to Sansa's relief, did not press her. Well, in any case, she could not prove anything, if she tried.

"Well, my lady, if a man is _truly_ in love with you, you don't have to wonder. You just know."

Sansa looked up with a frown, ignoring the way her heart had leapt in her chest. "Is it _really_ that easy?"

Pella smiled broadly. "It may sound odd, but that's just the way it is. It's instinct – and all women have it. I can assure you it's the truth."

Sansa's heart began to race in almost sickening excitement, but she refused to give up. "I think you're lying, Pella."

"No, my lady, truly I'm not. Men have certain ways about them. You'll know, once you go through it. You'll be able to tell right away. They don't need to do much – it's difficult to explain, my lady. Men, when they are truly in love with someone, they give something away, much as they don't want to. And women can tell – we have that advantage over them. It never fails."

Sansa felt faint. "I'll believe it when I see it," she managed to proclaim haughtily.

Pella giggled yet again, but held her peace. And Sansa's embroidery was lost forever. She tried her hardest to disguise the way she was so visibly flustered and abstracted, but she couldn't tell herself that she was fooling anyone. She needed to get out of this room as soon as possible. She needed... she didn't even know what. She couldn't begin to imagine running into Tyrion now – she recalled all the moments they had spent together in the new light of her discovery, and the dizzying, stifling joy she felt was unlike anything she had ever imagined or even read about. His very face seemed different now as she recalled it; he turned, all of him, into an entirely different person. It was the most delicious feeling, one she wouldn't have believed could have existed if anyone had told her. She was right, then – in her heart of hearts, she already knew. That odd feeling that seemed entrenched in her soul, in her flesh, so difficult to understand and to believe, but undoubtedly there. Instinct. Now she knew. And he loved her too. She bent her head over her needlework and resumed what she was doing, seized by a feeling so great, so hard to put into words, she did not know whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

Butterflies filled her stomach, stirring and dipping and making her feel dizzy and slightly nauseated. The room was blurry in the soft candlelight. Her heart throbbed in her ribs, and it was such a raw, acute sensation that she could only compare it – however much she abhorred it, and felt it was dishonourable to Tyrion – to the fear she had felt when her father had died, whenever Joffrey had been near her.

She took a deep, slow breath. Was she mad to do this? Should she still hold her peace, in spite of what she'd discovered, in spite of the great surge of courage that had filled her in the past few hours? Would Tyrion still reject her? Would he be forced to let her down gently? No, no, she mustn't think that now. Why was he taking so long? He wasn't, in truth, taking more than ordinary to come to bed, but she didn't see it. She began to chew on her lip. Perhaps she should give up on this, give up while she still had the time. But she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She was so excited, so certain – for the most part – that he wouldn't turn her away.

The door slowly creaked open – clearly Tyrion expected her to already be asleep, and didn't want to make any noise – and her heart skipped a beat. She sat up straighter, trying for the last time to give the impression that everything was normal.

He was surprised to see her up again. "Hello, Sansa. Not tired again, I see."

She mutely shook her head.

"Have you finished your book?"

"Not yet," she croaked. "I will continue tomorrow."

Tyrion nodded. He advanced into the room and came to a halt near the bed, preparing to undress. She had to try her hardest to look away this time. Her heart resumed its throbbing and erratic beating when she felt his weight sink onto the bed.

"You're pale, Sansa, and you've looked worried for a long time now. Forgive me... I don't think this has to do with your family, has it? It's something else." His voice was soft and respectful, and his look earnest as he searched her face unblinkingly. He would know if she lied. And she did not want to lie, not anymore.

"I've been thinking," she said, voice wavering ever so slightly.

"About what?"

She tried to breathe; her breath came out ragged. "I've been thinking," she began, speaking very slowly, "about... a girl that I know. One of my ladies-in-waiting. I won't say her name, she wouldn't like it. She thinks no one knows, but I do. She's in love with a man. An older man, very different from her. But she's not sure that he loves her back."

There was a pause, and the look on Tyrion's face left her breathless with both the most delicious expectation and insane fear. "Does this man know that she's in love with him?" he asked very quietly.

She shook her head. "He doesn't. She's afraid to tell him." Her voice cracked, but she soon regained her composure. "She thinks... she sometimes thinks he does love her. But she can't be sure. They... they know each other, you see. They're friends. They're fond of each other, I think. He was so good to her when she needed it, and is still. And she's afraid she'll ruin that, that she'll lose him, if she tries to make a guess about his feelings, and fails."

"Perhaps he has the same fear," Tyrion replied, ever so quietly still. "Perhaps he returns her love, but is afraid... even more so than her... that he'll scare her away if he shares his feelings."

"How can they solve this, then?" Sansa's voice cracked again, audibly this time. Her eyes filled with tears, which she desperately tried to disguise, but her body would no longer obey her.

"They should muster up the courage to talk to each other," Tyrion's voice was unsteady as well, his face awash with unbridled emotion. "But, if she thinks that he loves her, she's probably right. Women _are_ remarkably good at guessing that sort of thing."

The tears rolled free down her face. She did not attempt to check them or to wipe them away, she simply gave in to the relief, to the emotions seething wildly underneath.

"Sansa," he leaned closer to her, his voice so gentle, so unlike anything she had ever heard from him with anyone, that she almost felt like crying the harder. "Why are you crying?"

"Because... because I'm speaking about myself," she sobbed. She wiped one cheek with a trembling hand. "I meant _me. _The girl is me."

"Then you..." he breathed.

She began to cry again.

"Sansa," and his voice was unmistakably, unbearably loving, as he leaned closer still and gently framed her face with his hands, catching her tears. "No, no, don't cry. It's alright. You were right. He _is_ in love too. With you – I love you too." He faced her intently, brows furrowed in anguish and concern and _feeling_ – so much of it, so intense, so sincere, she could scarcely bear to look at him. It was burning – blinding.

"You're not lying," she half sobbed, searching his eyes hungrily. He shook his head, as earnest as ever.

"I couldn't tell you – how could I? You're a beautiful, young, kind and intelligent girl, and any man would be lucky to have you. I was just someone who was forced upon you, and I'm well aware of what I look like. I could never hold it against you if you didn't love me. Besides, what my family did to yours... I could never tell you, Sansa. I wasn't _going_ to. I feared your reaction too much. And I didn't want to consider the possibility that you might get hurt because of me. I never believed... not for a moment..." He fell back upon the pillows, shock and sadness dawning on his countenance. Her heart tightened with compassion and almost unendurable affection.

"You shouldn't have been afraid," she whispered, voice still distorted with crying.

"Neither should you," he rejoined gently. "I would _never_ hurt you, Sansa – never doubt that."

"I don't," she said in a small voice. "Deep down, I don't think I ever did."

She held her breath when she gazed at his expression – a touched, honest smile lit up his eyes and crinkled them at the corners, and his smile was so tender, she thought her heart, filled to overflowing, might burst. His hand – just a bit smaller than hers, bronzed by the sun and scarred by brawls and wars – crept somewhat shyly across the bed covers and touched hers, a little, delicate pale hand, that had only known dolls and sewing. He stroked her fingers one by one, ever so gently, as though in awe of her recent revelation and scared she might break if he touched her a little too hard. When he leaned in to brush his lips lovingly against hers, a feather-light contact, in one single kiss, she never thought to oppose him. Her heart filled and fluttered happily, her throat was thick again.

"I _will_ protect you, Sansa," he vowed gravely. "Now, more than ever. You don't ever have to be afraid again."

"I don't mind fear," she countered shyly, "It's enough to know that I have you near me."

He nodded, squeezing her hand hard, with no fear now. "You most certainly do – and you will come to regret your words, someday, I fear, when you grow tired of me. But I am remarkably stubborn, and you will be hard-pressed to get me to leave you alone by then."

Sansa laughed. "Never. I won't grow tired of you."

He smiled. "One can but hope." He deposited another brief, tender kiss on her lips. Was he still afraid that he would scare her away? "You have made me very happy, my dearest Sansa. I don't know if I will ever have the ability to show you just how much, but I will certainly try."

"I don't think you'll need to try very hard," she whispered, smiling. She did not remember the last time her chest had felt so light – she had the strange feeling that she would start to soar above the room at any moment. Tyrion was watching her closely, and his smile was filled with wry amusement and radiant affection – and that, if she could have nothing else in this world, if no more blessings were to be given her, was quite enough for her, and something she was sure she would cling to and cherish for the rest of her days.

* * *

**I'm a little scared. I've never written for this fandom before, and I often felt out of my depth. Is this too mushy? Too unreal? Too OOC? Hopefully not. :\ I would love to read your thoughts, if you liked this. In case you have anything less positive to point out - constructive crit only, please.  
**

**Update 08/07/2013:****This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I**** decided to continue it and turn it into a multi-chaptered story (God help me). Is there anyone knowledgeable about both the GoT/ASOIAF universe willing to brainstorm with me/ give me advice as I write? I don't know enough and I could really use some help. Review and/or PM me if you're interested. Thank you.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Finally, Chapter 2 is here. A very special thanks to my lovely beta, **Khaemera,** who puts up with my relentless questions and slow understanding. Without her, this story wouldn't have gotten off the ground. Anything foolish or improbable or downright wrong in this chapter is solely my responsibility.

That said, I hope you enjoy it. Your continued support and feedback means the world to me, so please be sure to let me know how I'm doing, even if you can't think of anything to say! Any review is welcome!

* * *

He awoke when the sun was high in the sky. He imagined what everything must look like outside; the light giving everything a sharp, blinding white glow, spilling into the sea and denying any passerby the possibility of a shade. He didn't remember when last he had slept so well – a blissful, dreamless, restful sleep. He couldn't remember when last he had awakened with the sunlight pouring in and feeling happy about it. But then again... he carefully hauled himself up against the pillows to better study the girl still sleeping deeply, with a ghost of a smile on her lips, next to him. Then again, back then, he hadn't had Sansa.

He couldn't help but smile as he looked at her. Her body, nestled in an almost childlike manner beneath the sheets, radiated warmth and a hint of a scent, hard to define, sweetish, infant-like. She looked peaceful, happy, even in her sleep. Perhaps it was possible that she didn't regret her confession last night. The Seven knew _he_ didn't. Nor did he regret his own. He was no longer afraid. It was extraordinarily difficult to be, when she had not turned him away when he'd said he'd loved her, when she had allowed him to wipe her tears and to kiss her. Affection swelled in his breast; a smile played on his lips as he continued to watch her. He wanted to touch her, to try a caress, but didn't wish to wake her.

Right then, as though guessing his thoughts, Sansa stirred slightly, her eyes closed. He didn't move, waiting to see if she would indeed awaken. At last, she blinked, as though not quite remembering where she was, and her disconnected gaze spun over the room in doubt. But then, it came to rest on him, and recollection dawned on her face. She smiled, the sweetest smile he had yet seen her give anyone, and a faint blush reddened her cheeks.

"Good morning, my lady," he greeted her affectionately. He then risked touching her cheek, the slightest of touches, barely a caress.

"Good morning, Tyrion," she returned shyly, burrowing deeper into the sheets. Her blush increased.

"Your night was satisfactory, I hope?"

"Yes," she murmured, the smile returning to her lips. "I hope yours was too?"

"The best I had in years."

Her smile widened, amused and with a hint of awareness, fully lighting up her face – the smile of a carefree, happy girl, which was something she had never been allowed to be in King's Landing. So this was what Sansa looked like happy – what she could look like, whenever she was with him, from now on. It quite mesmerized him.

He chanced touching her cheek again, lingering this time – and he was greatly surprised and touched when she made no attempt to turn away, but instead leaned her cheek into his scarred palm, brushed against it for a second and closed her eyes. Her face was still and apparently peaceful, but he had looked at enough people – been around enough people, many more often miserable than happy – to know when the turmoil of sorrowful memories churned beneath a placid exterior. He was certain the same was happening to Sansa now. He could not keep her from her sadness, or from remembering her family, as much as he would like her never to be in pain. He hoped... hoped she didn't look that way because of something _he'd_ done.

"Would you very much mind letting a dim-witted, foolish man know of your thoughts?" he asked, tenderly wry, brushing his fingers against her temple to bring her back to the present moment.

Her eyes opened slowly. At length, she smiled. "You are many things, my lord, but a dim-witted, foolish man you most certainly are _not_."

"Ah, you'd be surprised." He smiled, but his face sobered almost instantly. "What is it, Sansa? You don't... you don't feel you did something you regret now, do you?"

She smiled a little and shook her head, her thick, coppery hair brushing his fingers. "No, I most certainly don't regret anything," she said in a little voice. The blush returned yet again.

"I'm very glad to hear it, because _I_ don't either, and I wouldn't want you to for the world."

Her smile touched him. He wanted to say more, but her coyness held him back. Their faces, in any case, were probably eloquent enough.

She was watching him now, with a tender, somewhat knowing smile, eyes fixed upon him, drinking in his expression. He thought her much older then, somewhat like a mother, or already possessing that strange quality that all women seemed to have, the one to effortlessly guess what goes on beneath a man's puny façade, reading into feelings he is barely aware of himself.

He did not think he would frighten her, now. Perhaps she already knew what he was thinking. He leaned forward, slowly, gently, his hand still cradling her cheek. She closed her eyes before his lips touched hers, and he could taste her smile when he allowed his mouth to linger, for longer than he had yet dared, on hers.

He didn't want to pull away. But he also didn't want to press his luck. There would be plenty of time for more, he tried to tell his reluctant self. At length, he pulled away, not by much, enough to still watch her closely, to be able to stroke her cheek, if he wanted, to feel the warmth and sweet smell of her young, unblemished skin – enough to feel the full affection of her smile.

"Thank you for letting me do this," he whispered.

She smiled, not the slightest hint of disgust on her glowing face. He felt very grateful for her, then – very grateful and very overwhelmed by the feelings he had spent so long trying to suppress. He wouldn't let her go, now – and he'd be damned to the Seven Hells before he let anything, whatever it was, happen to her. She was fully his now, and he would protect her. He would love her, and he'd make certain she would never doubt that.

"If we don't leave our bed soon, though, people are going to think something improper occurred last night," he pointed out, voice wry but his expression entirely deadpan. Sansa giggled silently, glancing down in girlish abashment, before looking up at him again and nodding.

"I'm not..." he paused, part of him feeling like a ridiculous infatuated boy, but wanting to make absolutely sure she knew it. "I'm _not_ saying it for myself, you know."

Red flooded her cheeks. "Yes, I know," she murmured, avoiding his gaze in a new surge of shyness which he found both endearing and amusing.

It was the end of the dreamy lull they had entered last night. The world was no longer their home and their bedroom alone, with everyone who might want to harm them kept at arm's length. They were forced to emerge and to place themselves at the beck and call of those who ran the viper's nest. He wasn't certain whether to smile at it this time because he was in such good spirits, or to be all the angrier and more dispirited for it. At least he had her to return to every night. He could see her whenever he wanted to, even, because they were married and could now take full advantage of that. The prospect was deeply heartening, and it touched him far more than she would ever know or that he would able to explain, even to himself.

He was decidedly _very_ unaccustomed to this sort of happiness. Happiness, whenever he'd had it, had been short-lived. He had grown to think it was some sort of illusion, something that might come out of a fever dream, for one to realize it had never been real once they woke up. But he couldn't doubt this; something kept him from it. He couldn't doubt Sansa's love – although he surely didn't understand it, but he was happy he had it all the same – and he could never doubt the extent of everything she made him feel because of it. He felt too small, too weak to be able to hold it all in. And there he was, growing terribly maudlin. It was good that not very many were aware of this side of his nature.

He had, however, finally arrived at the confirmation to the long-harboured suspicion that he was more transparent than he thought. Sarcasm, barbs, downright verbal abuse, all of the weapons he usually made use of were nothing and had no power at all when compared to the smile that threatened to stretch across his face at the most puzzling of moments. He could clearly feel Pod's bewilderment – and, dare he say it, suspicion? – as he helped him dress that morning, after he had gathered enough willpower to leave Sansa's side.

"And how are you this morning, Podrick?" Tyrion enquired cheerfully.

"Well, my lord," the boy responded carefully.

"I'm feeling remarkably well myself, too. Something about the weather, I think." He happily allowed Pod to continue going about his work, humming to himself in the meantime.

He didn't want to hold himself back, although a small, unsettling part of him, a part of him that remembered past losses far too well, told him that he should. He _should_ try to disguise his feelings as best he could; he should make the effort, for Sansa too, especially for Sansa. He couldn't say he had suddenly begun to trust the world they lived in, and the uncomfortable, nagging notion that something might happen to separate them or worse – far worse – if their feelings were revealed pressed the forefront of his brain, past his joy, past his optimism.

He would have to try, at least for now, at least until things could – by some blessing of the Seven or some obscure twist of fate that quite eluded him at present – be made more stable, safer, somehow.

Work awaited him. Being Master of Coin really was not his strong suit, nor would it ever be, but today, and in all days to come, he could face the prospect feeling more heartened. He spared Sansa one last thought and smiled softly to himself. He now permitted himself to fully wonder what she did with her lonely hours; what she did, what she thought of, what her opinions were on the simplest, most foolish of things. He remembered the way she had stared at the sea, the day before, and wondered how the sea would look like seen from her eyes. He had gotten to know her better, lately, but he still didn't know her well enough. He was determined to change that.

* * *

She knew that there was something different about her, and that everyone would probably be aware of it if they saw her. Her demeanour was lighter, less on edge. A smile played on her lips, indifferent to her attempts at self-control. The sun seemed to shine more brightly, the colours all seemed more vivid. Her eyes saw differently, even though the world was the same. All her senses were sharpened almost to painful keenness, fixed on things she had never thought about before.

She did not know all of this was possible. She had dreamed of love as she had read of it in books and poems and heard it in songs, but somehow they had not prepared her for this. Reality was different. It still wasn't perfect, regardless of how happy she felt. It was still raw and dangerous and disturbing. Bad things continued to happen near her, bad things that she and Tyrion weren't immune to. But she would still take that imperfection, sweetened by the love she had discovered, softened by her current happiness, over the fantasy of the stories she had once loved so much, odd in their perfect smoothness. Suddenly, they seemed to hold no appeal for her anymore.

She felt like dancing. She didn't care what would happen the next minute, she was so happy now, and so determined to cling to that happiness, come that may. She _had_ wished Tyrion could have lingered with her in the morning, but had understood his qualms. Besides, he had work. Still she wished they could have stayed together a little longer.

"My lady," one of her ladies-in-waiting approached her, shattering her reverie, and her face showed a note of something that looked like apprehension. "Lady Margaery has summoned you to the castle. She wants all of us to start trying on dresses. For the wedding."

Sansa's heart skipped an unsettled beat. It hadn't been very long ago at all that she had been in Margaery's position. She still remembered far too keenly the anguish of having to try to look happy when she felt the exact opposite – the very greatest of despairs. She did not know how Margaery could handle it; she didn't suppose her friend to be truly happy – how could she be? – just that perhaps she was better at disguising her feelings than she had been. Still, she didn't envy her, not one bit.

Sansa stood up. It took her everything not to show her disappointment, her sheer unwillingness. "Very well," she said evenly. "Then to the castle we go."

Margaery had not pressed them to hurry, and she could not think of leaving without warning Tyrion first, even though they would hardly be far from each other. While her lady-in-waiting rushed off, she took a deep breath and began to walk towards the courtyard where she knew Tyrion did his work. Even making her way towards him hurt. She did not want to be parted from him. She could pretend, as long as she knew he was nearby. But not seeing him, after everything that had happened between them...

She came to a halt before his desk. He had looked up as soon as he'd heard her footsteps and the smile that lit up his face as he saw her touched her deeply. She wavered in her resolution, wanting nothing more than to rush to him and refuse to go the castle and try on Margaery's dresses.

He immediately put his books and papers aside. "Sansa. I wasn't expecting you. To what do I owe the honour of your presence?"

She smiled – she couldn't help it. "Lady Margaery has summoned me to the castle," she explained. The words rushed out clumsily as she attempted to get the painful announcement out of the way quickly. "She's making preparations for the wedding and wants me and my ladies to start trying on our dresses."

"Hmm," Tyrion furrowed his brow and nodded somewhat absently. "How a thinking, sensible creature can be so excited about marrying my nephew I really cannot fathom. Well, I _can_, truth be told, but I would rather not dwell on the reasons why. In any case, we must let her be, I suppose. If nothing occurs to thwart these plans, the dresses will rightly be all she has to be excited about in such an occasion."

"I don't want to go," Sansa said desperately.

Tyrion looked up at her and his features softened. "And I don't want you to go either, if I'm to speak frankly, even though I know it is foolish of me to feel it."

She smiled; her heart felt warm and full and tingly in her chest. Hearing such words made everything worth it; she could even imagine leaving with a smile, after this. She tried to find words to properly reciprocate his sentiments, but could not.

Tyrion took her hand and gently drew her forward, closer to him. "But I don't think you have a say in the matter, my dear wife, and neither do I, for that matter. It's best that you go willingly and give no one reasons to suspect anything. Not even Lady Margaery, fond of you as I believe she is. I know better than to try and guess how long trying on dresses will take—" Sansa could not help a giggle, "but I will try to tell myself you will return soon."

"I will try too," Sansa whispered.

Tyrion smiled. This smile was so very unusual for him – without a hint of sarcasm, harshness or guardedness, so openly gentle and loving, creating a new face altogether, that she felt her throat turn into knots. She wasn't yet accustomed to this, much as she loved it. She couldn't find the words to say how much she cherished this, and him. She could only stare, stupidly, fixedly, not ever wanting to part from him. She did not have his way with words – would she ever be able to tell him exactly how he made her feel, and how grateful she was for him?

He tenderly tugged on her hand, drawing her closer still. He got up and she bent down, and his lips touched her forehead first, then her mouth.

"Go and be safe," he said. "I will be thinking of you."

She smiled. "I will be thinking of you too. I'll come back soon – as soon as I am able."

He nodded, starting to pull back, and she discerned the first hints of saddened gravity in his eyes. He didn't want her to go. He was braver than she was, but he didn't want her to go either. Her heart filled at this realization, but, at the same time, powdered all her meagre resolve to dust. _It will not be long, _she tried to tell herself. _I will be back before tonight._

"Tyrion..." she began gingerly, seeing the way his eyes still rested upon her, no word passing from his lips.

His face flashed with subtle interest, almost anticipation. "Yes?"

_I love you._

"I wouldn't leave you if I could," she whispered, feeling the words weigh heavy and clumsy on her unwilling tongue. Her unwilling tongue that wanted to be saying something else. "I never would."

His face softened with a smile again. His smile said enough – more than she would be able to describe, if she had to. She turned abruptly, before her departure could be made more difficult still, and at length began to walk slowly away. She felt Tyrion's eyes on her all the while, until she disappeared from his view.

* * *

Once they were inside the castle, they were immediately led to Margaery's quarters. She felt awkward while waiting for Margaery to arrive. The Red Keep filled her with a deep-seated mixture of repulsion and horror, and perhaps something more... a hatred too strong for her feeble frame. Too foreign. It would have horrified the old Sansa, so determined to only entertain lady-like feelings. Still, if she could, she would never set foot in here again. Her skin crawled anxiously the longer she lingered within its walls.

Margaery came into the room with a smile, and held out her arms to her. "My darling Sansa. I'm so sorry that I haven't been able to send for you sooner, or visit you. I've been so busy, you know."

Sansa nodded weakly.

Margaery's smile was radiant. "But now here I am, although I'm afraid I shan't be making up for the lost time. I want you and your ladies to start trying on dresses; the wedding day is upon us, there isn't a moment to lose." To Sansa's confusion, Margaery seemed genuinely happy. Maybe she was just too simple-minded and even stupid to be able to understand her. But truth be told, she would rather remain stupid. She didn't want to understand anything that had to do with Joffrey, however remotely.

The dresses, however, were exquisite. Her defences threatened to crumble as she reverently touched a flowing gown of the palest grey silk, with green and golden flowers embroidered on it.

"Go on, try it on," Margaery urged her, standing much closer to her than she'd been aware of, with a lopsided, knowing smile.

She did not refuse. Her ladies about her were whispering and giggling excitedly, touching and feeling the fabrics with hungry fingers, just as entranced by the finery as she was. Perhaps more. She should not act like or think that she was so much better than them – dresses, paintings and anything beautiful in general still made a strong impression on her, reaching into something childlike and vulnerable and easily yielding that remained hidden away somewhere inside her. She hadn't yet fully learned to bury it, because, deep down, in spite of the horrors she had undergone and witnessed, she still could not tell herself that beauty was a bad thing or a weakness. The day she did, she sensed, she might as well be dead, or so helplessly lost that she would no longer be able to recognize herself.

All around her, everyone was trying on dresses, and a giddy, girlish humming buzzed about her ears, carried across the room by the warm breeze that flitted in through the open windows. Margaery surveyed the scene with pleasure, while Sansa, already wearing her favoured gown, stood up straighter and looked at herself in the mirror. Her heart softened at the image – the dress really was lovely.

"It looks beautiful on you – it brings out your eyes," Margaery told her, smiling. "That would be my choice for you, if it was up to me to decide. Here, try these as well."

Sansa smiled sheepishly and accepted the armful of dresses, the gauzy fabrics spilling over and fluttering softly, brushing the floor. Growing entertained, she forgot her qualms about what the dresses were destined for. At some point as she tried them on, she began to wonder what Tyrion would think. Would he like to see her in them? Would he have a favourite? Would he think her beautiful?

The faintest splinter of longing seemed to open a crack in her heart. It was difficult to forget that, aside from the headiness of their recent condition, he had been a close friend, someone whose motives towards her she did not have to question, in spite of her fears, at first. He had been someone she had found herself relying on and missing in darker moments. He retained that quality yet, of the dearest friend she had found, and that still often overcame the new, flustered, physical feelings that had begun to accompany his presence.

She suddenly had the disturbing thought that Margaery might be able to read her feelings on her face, and guess what had happened, even if she didn't connect the changes to Tyrion right away. Her stomach tightened in a beginning of nausea. She didn't want Margaery to know, at least not for now. She chanced a glance at her, laughing at some of her ladies' chatter, already looking as grand and benevolent as a very queen. Margaery was beautiful and kind, and she believed that she genuinely cared for her, but Sansa could not fully understand her, and she always felt that their friendship rested on unsteady ground, like quicksand. Something always held her back when she was about to entirely confide in her, much as she sometimes positively wished to be able to share her load with someone else – and much as Margaery seemed always so ready to take it on for her. She _did_ like her, very much, sometimes, but she couldn't trust her, not really. And now, after everything, she found out that she felt especially protective of her bond with Tyrion. She did not know what to make of the fact that she and Margaery would truly be family soon – she didn't feel, for some reason, like that would be the end of the uncertainty hanging between them.

"Yes, definitely this one for you," she dimly heard Margaery say, in a smiling voice, to one of the girls.

She stared at the dress in the looking glass, until the golden and green flowers blurred, turning into an uncertain, nameless colour, and her unease about Margaery merged with her urgent affection for Tyrion, and she was no longer sure of anything but the feeling that she was very far away, floating into the distance, feeling sickness churning faintly beneath her fleshless form.

"Sansa? Is everything alright?"

She blinked, her thoughts slowly clearing, and turned to look at Margaery's concerned, questioning face. She tried to smile.

"Yes. I'm alright. I was just distracted."

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"No." She paused. "I'm fine, I was just thinking about something else."

Margaery studied her for a moment, but held her peace, to Sansa's relief. At length, when there were possibly no more dresses to try on or anything to alter in them, their purpose at the castle seemed to be complete. A wave of relief washed over Sansa, making her almost weak-kneed. She wanted to leave, now. If this was someone else she was with, she wouldn't have held out any hopes of being able to do so until the following day. But it was Margaery. She wouldn't force her to be where she didn't want to be – even if she _didn't_ know where Sansa didn't want to be. She was certain of that.

"I can't stay with you, now, Sansa," Margaery told her, with what looked like genuine regret. "I wish I could, but I am needed elsewhere. I don't seem to do anything else, these days. But please, linger a while – it would do me good to know you're here, even if we're not together. You can have your rooms. Please?" Her smile was so disarming, with a note of vulnerability, almost pleading, that Sansa could not help but assent, feeling a little disgusted at her weakness.

Margaery and her own flock of handmaidens and dressmakers went from the room. Everything was quiet again, normal, and Sansa had the queer feeling that nothing had happened at all.

So to her old rooms, which she didn't miss in the slightest, she went. Sighing, and determined that she would not stay long, she sat down, watching her ladies do the same. She picked up a book and flipped through the pages disinterestedly, unable to concentrate. Agitation fluttered within, almost burning her. It had not been many hours since she had left Tyrion's side and already she wanted to return to him. Her desire to be near him was now unchecked, undiluted by fear or propriety. When they weren't together, when he was away from her – although in reality they were never very distant at all – he grew more fiercely dear to her, the memories of him more distinct and the need for his company more pressing. A little suffocated, she got up and went to the window, breathing in the fresh, briny air that wafted up from the sea.

She willed herself to remember the joy she'd felt initially, the unbridled hope and relief and a thousand sunny feelings all at once, swarming warm and happily through her. They were distant now, fading into a memory, somehow. She wasn't entirely sure why.

She leaned outside, closing her eyes as the balmy morning breeze kissed her face and threaded through her hair. Ships glided peacefully across the perfectly still, shimmering mirror of the sea. A wave of old, familiar nostalgia, more recollection than true longing, came over her, as she stared at the ships slowly leaving her field of vision, towards unknown lands and worlds, places she had never heard of, had never read about in her books... places that were home to someone, warm and welcome, familiar, beloved...

She cut her train of thought short, before it could reach its inevitable destination and darken her spirits. Winterfell, blurry in her memory as it had become, would forever be her home. Regardless of whoever came to occupy it in the future, she would always see her face, and the faces of her siblings and her parents, there. Winterfell was _theirs_, forever. She had pined for it fervently, for a long time. But she hardly felt the energy to pine for it any longer, and while sometimes she felt relief for it, sometimes she also felt guilt. Any sort of longing had shifted into a different part of her, one that didn't function or pushed for consciousness daily. It allowed her to keep living. She would _never_ be able to call King's Landing her home, either – but all she had to do was to remember Tyrion to feel safer in it, to even begin to regard it a little more pleasantly, difficult and bewildering as that was. A single person could make all the difference in the world – turn the vastness of an entire city, of an entire country, in its coldness and foreignness and despair, into something else. A single heart, beating underneath a single, unremarkable chest, was all it took to completely alter the work of an entire age, to dispel into nothingness the evil influence of other people.

This, too, she hadn't known. She hadn't been aware of a great many important things. But now she understood this as well. So small – yet almost beautiful. Making sense, somehow. All new, neither entirely painful nor entirely pleasant.

She pulled back from the window, the rush of warmth that hit her face once she had retreated back inside feeling like a slap, a fierce gush of reality. Her heart felt painfully alive beneath the silk and corset. All that she felt, however, she wouldn't be able to say if someone asked her.

"Kyra," she said, once she had sat back down. She looked at one of her ladies with curly brown hair, head bent over her sewing. "Will you sing to us? You're always so good at it."

Kyra's face briefly lit up, and she soon did as requested. Sansa was glad that the song was not a mournful one. Neither was it cheerful; it was something in the middle, something that fit precisely what she was feeling. The words spoke of things unfamiliar to her, which distracted her, like a book might. She sat silently, empty-handed, and listened. For a while, it kept her mind from wandering.

* * *

It turned out that loving his wife did _not_ make work easier. On the contrary. It made him want to rush to her side faster. The flurry of thoughts of her could not be halted. Concentration became a jest. Yet press on he must, although he did so half-heartedly, almost with impatience – or perhaps ill-will was the better word.

He was glad that his work was a solitary one, and, for once, that no one seemed particularly interested in giving him advice on how best to do it, quite the opposite. Like someone properly in love, still basking in the fresh wonders of his returned affection, he wanted to cherish his feelings and memories by himself, shielding them from prying eyes. Screaming from the rooftops, as much as the urge might come to him, wouldn't do. What a twisted world they lived in. Still, he must try his best to disguise how he felt.

How eager he was for the blasted day to be over already. Or, at least, for some mindless company, someone he could feel at ease with. Where _was_ Bronn when he needed him? When he wasn't protecting him during potentially fatal brawls and foolish acts of warfare, that is? He just might send for him.

He wondered if Sansa might be thinking the same as he was and struggling with the same problem – less with boredom than with the effort of concealing her feelings, trying to mould herself into her surroundings, much like what she'd been forced to do so far, in truth. He wondered if she would see things the same way he did, feel the necessity to act thus, or if that was simply ingrained in her by now after undergoing such anguish and uncertainty while living in King's Landing. He felt sorry for her as he imagined what might be going on with her at the castle. Trying on dresses wasn't a very hazardous activity, but one always had to think twice, in this place. Her displeasure to leave had been evident, and it still filled him with pride and elation to recall that, although he had wished there was anything in his power he could do to keep her from having to go.

He didn't want her to feel alone or helpless anymore. He didn't want to imagine she might be struggling with that still – he wished once more that he could rush to her side and dispel the darkness himself. He did not want to have to ask her to hide and perpetuate the state of unease and distrust she was already so dreadfully familiar with – but perhaps, if such a request came from him, she would understand, and know that he asked it of her only out of worry and affection.

His heart pounded with fierce protectiveness – something akin to pain, something almost angry. It was odd how the flurry of tender feelings he had for Sansa, something so cleansing and beneficial for him, the purest thing he had ever felt, so unlike the shit he often waded in otherwise, could also unleash something so dark. This had been refined throughout the years, at the cost of past loves and his own innocence – he could no longer afford to be naïve. He would have learned nothing about people and the world if he allowed himself to be.

So, for her, he would permit that darkness to spring into existence. Not out of anything else but a sheer desire to keep her safe. It was still ugly – his own darkness had rarely ever been anything else. But it was worth feeling and utterly necessary when Sansa was the one at stake. For her, he was willing to do a great many ugly things.

He _did_ long to see her. By the Seven, he was a soppy fool. But a part of him felt giddy, a part of him felt like grinning. He could care less about it. He _was_ happy. And, thankfully, there was no one here now to see it.

He poured himself harder into his extraordinarily dull duties, reasoning to himself – not unlike an excited child, with his eyes set on a distant reward – that, the sooner he finished his work, the sooner he might return to Sansa after she was back. It never failed to amaze him, how this felt like the very first time for everything; the first time he loved, the first time he was truly loved – and it was, for all he knew –, the first time he had some faith in the goodness of the world, in spite of the very palpable dangers he was currently trying to shield both Sansa and himself from. If he let it, this awe he had always known to rest deep within him could swallow him whole, wipe away the grey shadows and the scepticism he had been forced to grow from his world. He could be free, almost childlike, relying entirely on hope and beauty. An abnormal thing for an Imp like him to feel, someone who had never had many reasons to find faith or hope or joy in anything. But he felt all of that now, in spite of his fears, felt it unmistakably, and wanted nothing better than to succumb to it. He could not. But the feeling... ah, the feeling was exquisite, better than everything he had ever dreamed put together. If this was reality, then he didn't mind that every dream and desire he had ever entertained had been torn to shreds. It showed him that something better was indeed possible.

Could Sansa even fathom what she had done for him? Was she aware of her own power? Did this exquisite girl believe herself ordinary, unworthy of note, did she by chance think _he_ was the one who honoured her with his love? What a heinous delusion. No, she could not possibly know what she and her existence meant to him. She would never have any inkling of the gratitude he felt for her and for the affection she bestowed on him. _He_ had never any inkling that he would come to feel this way himself, and the notion was still awe-inspiring and slightly unbelievable. Things had been slow to move, but, from where he sat now, everything seemed to have happened so fast, so unexpectedly. Still, regardless of perception, he certainly would not allow her to think lowly of herself and her qualities any longer. There was nothing he felt so ready for – nothing he felt he'd be better at – than cherishing Sansa and the light she had brought into his life. She hadn't just pierced through one little window of darkness – no, she had burst open every gate, every door, and let the sunshine in at last. It would be blinding and frightening and something to think twice about, if it didn't make him so ridiculously glad.

Soppy again. He really _must_ try to rein himself in. Letting his feelings run away like this wasn't very attractive. And the numbers still awaited him in the pages, stoical and utterly un-engaging. But he was ready for them. Right now, if someone had asked him, he would say he could tackle the very world.

* * *

It had been a long morning. After restlessly enduring one hour inside the castle, more out of pity for Margaery than anything else, she had finally declared that she would be leaving at once and refused to take a meal before departure. Fortunately, as she knew it would happen, Margaery did not try to stop her. She had never before been so glad to return to the villa she shared with Tyrion. She could often fool herself into feeling that they lived in a different city altogether, far from the reach of the Keep and of King's Landing. Their home was akin to a little island of peace and quiet, the only place where she felt, more than ever, that she could be entirely herself, where she didn't have to disguise her true feelings or bite her tongue.

She immediately set in search of Tyrion, but, to her shock, he wasn't where he was meant to be. She wondered about his whereabouts and security, with a brief stab of panic, but something told her he was safe. Something unexpected had to have happened. Perhaps someone had called for him, for some reason. She would wait for him, all day and all night if she had to. She would not rest while she didn't see him, finally, and make certain he was indeed well.

She took her midday meal alone, in their room, and watched the sun reach its highest peak in a sky so sunny it was almost devoid of colour. Her heart throbbed as the hours passed, with both anticipation and distress, and she was quick to dismiss the servant who had served her the meal as well as her ladies, pleading a headache. She was left alone, and the hours continued to roll by.

Not knowing what to do to pass the time, feeling slightly faint with the rush of blood that stormed frantically through her veins, she decided to brush her hair, making sure it was perfectly smooth. _Perhaps he still has work left to do, _she thought somewhat dejectedly. _Perhaps something happened with someone else. I don't fault him for that, I'm sure he would have come to me as soon as possible if he were able. But if he knew how much I have missed him this morning..._

She was halfway through a long strand of hair, getting the distraction she so sorely needed as best as she was able to in her current frame of mind, when she heard the familiar creaking of the door. Tyrion came into the room, and the door closed silently behind him. Her heart skipped a beat.

Her head snapped towards him, but Sansa was unable to smile; she wasn't sure what was coming across in her expression, she only knew that she felt a sinking, hungry, glad relief to see him. At length, she got up. But she still couldn't say anything. She didn't walk towards him. And neither did he. They merely stared at each other from across the room, some strange, all but indefinable emotion taking hold of their faces, shaping their expressions into something stronger than any self-abashment or desire to hide.

"Sansa." His voice was thick and dropped by the time he uttered the final syllable, rendering it all but impossible to be heard. Her heart skipped another beat.

"Tyrion," she whispered.

Slowly, somewhat gingerly, he began to make his way towards her. He held out his hand to her, and she took it – and there was no need to say anything for a long moment. His fingers grasped hers gently, his thumb slowly brushing the heel of her palm, and her hand curled smaller to better fit his, happy to nestle deeper into his.

Her eyes were wet and her lips quivered; every minute feeling that had crossed her mind and occupied her heart for even the barest of seconds that morning meshed and grew large and threatened to overtake her completely. She felt weak, and glad that she could be weak with him, that he was there to see her be so. It was a relief. A happiness.

He walked closer to her still, and instinctively, she knelt down so that she could be at his level, look him in the eyes. There was no room or time for timidity now.

"Tyrion," she said again, and she swallowed. Her tongue felt thick, her throat parched. "I was worried. I came home and I didn't see you."

"I wanted to come to you sooner," his voice was a whisper, regretful, more poignant and beautiful and worthy of everything in its sadness than most people's joy. She had never heard him speak like this. Not to anyone. "I was delayed. Ser Barnaby called for me from the Keep, he needed my help, and it took longer than I anticipated. Otherwise, I would have been with you as soon as you were back. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she said in a small voice, her gaze boring into his earnest, almost saddened blue eyes. "I'm just glad that you're here."

He seemed to guess what had happened, then; what she'd felt, all that she had thought during the hours she'd been away. He realized everything. She felt she had put down a great weight when she rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes and finally let out a shaky breath she didn't know she'd been holding. His hands went to her face, with so gentle and delicate a touch she could hardly feel them at first, and she sensed that he was silently unburdening himself as well. It wasn't just her. He had needed her just as badly.

"I missed you," she whispered earnestly, eyes closed still. Her voice lingered on the second word, dragged it out with a hint of desperation.

"I missed you too, my Sansa." She opened her eyes, and they bore straight through his. He was watching her silently, saddened still, impossibly attentive, and something else... something she had to guess at, feel, the way she'd felt it before, without being able to explain it or pinpoint it. It was the matter that every heart was made of, hanging from his face, bleeding openly for her to see. He stroked her cheek softly and attempted a smile. And then, without thinking, she put her lips to his – leaned them against his, without a thought for discomfort or embarrassment. He was taken aback at first, she could tell, but then both his hands came gently to frame her face again and he kissed her back, softly, without trying to do more. "I'm very, _very_ glad to finally return to you."

There was so much she could say, then, so many thoughts, so many feelings tearing at her all at once – but she couldn't make them out, she couldn't pick just one and unravel it from the general mess, she couldn't think. She just wanted to breathe – to breathe as though she had been holding her breath all day. She just wanted to stay with him.

"Don't go away," she whispered, pressing her forehead harder against his, closing her eyes again as if to pray.

"I won't. I promise." One of his hands now went to her hair, and stroked slowly and softly, reassuringly. His voice remained a whisper, meant for her ears alone. She had thought they would have many things to say to each other once they were together again – that there would be smiles, or playfulness, or something equally light-hearted – but there hadn't been. They hadn't fully gotten used to their new situation yet, they hadn't fully resurfaced on the other side. There was only this – desperate, silent, grateful feeling, a need that was like fingernails tearing at the skin. There was only the imminence of tears and the still too vivid reminder of previous pain and loneliness. They couldn't laugh, not yet – a blink and one of them might disappear. And that wasn't something they could bear. Perhaps tomorrow it would be different. For now, this was enough. It was all there was, and deep down in her heart, she wouldn't change it if she could.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you recognize.**  
**

**Author's Note: **So, if you've read the change I made in the summary and the status of the story, you will know I have discontinued this story. I had chapter 3 lying around finished and decided to post it to hopefully make everyone a little happier before stopping posting for good. I apologize to all of those who were reading and loving it. I shouldn't have turned this into a multi-chaptered story - that usually never works out. Plus, the GOT/ASoIaF universe is far too complex for me; I frequently felt out of my depth and not quite sure where to go. I would have ended up shaming the fandom and butchering the story sooner or later. For all of this, I decided it would be best to just stop. I blame myself; I should have known my limits, but got swayed by the generous praise you guys have given me.

So, does this mean I'll never return to the story? Never say never, but it IS very likely that I won't. If I returned to it, I would just be faced with the same difficulties all over again. I didn't stop writing and posting because I got tired of it - in fact, I have a special fondness for this story, even though it's not particularly well-written. But it's pretty much doomed, so it's best to stop now. For this reason, please, do **_not_** send it to your story alerts anymore, because you'll be waiting in vain. I will not be updating. I will label the story as complete. So it's pointless to keep putting alerts on it.

Thank you to those who took the time to review and express interest and encouragement. It truly meant the world to me, and it won't be forgotten. I hope you enjoy this last chapter (it's unbeta'ed, though, so you know what that means).

* * *

The time they had spent away from each other and the feelings that had accompanied their reunion changed something. Sansa could tell that the following morning, from the moment they were up. She could not pinpoint exactly what it was – Tyrion seemed to be in good spirits, which immediately lifted hers. He smiled at her as he left the bed, and she felt a surge of hope as she saw that he was doing everything in quite a markedly slow manner.

"Good morning, Sansa." She felt heady with joy at his tone of voice and smile.

"Good morning, Tyrion," she grinned widely.

He watched her expression intently, eyes darting about to take all of her in. She held her breath at his scrutiny, guessing that something intense and a little frightening – something she had only read about so far – was at work in the depths of his heart. Her own heart beat faster, an unknown, hot and dizzy feeling overcoming the deep and steady affection she usually felt. He gently put a hand to her cheek and kissed her lips. Her eyes fluttered close and a part of her melted at his unwavering tenderness.

"I've been thinking," he said at length, after pulling away from her – but only a little. "I know I've told you about keeping the new state of her relationship concealed, for the sake of our safety in a place like King's Landing... but I think it might be safe when it's just the two of us, in the villa, with no one else around."

Sansa's eyes lit up, "Do you mean that, really?"

He smiled, seeming both amused and touched by her reaction, "Yes, I do. I still think it would be best to maintain the unhappily married façade outside of home, especially when we're summoned to the Keep for some reason. Or if we're out in the city. There's no knowing who we might cross paths with, and what they will do or say – or _who_ they will say anything to – if they know about us. I don't trust a lot of people – barely anyone, if I'm honest – and I've often found that I've had very good reasons not to." He paused. "Do you think me morbidly mistrustful for saying this, Sansa?"

She shook her head. "I think you're very wise, and I understand why you want to do things this way."

He touched her hand in acknowledgement of her words. "But I think the villa is sufficiently distant from the castle for us to be able to breathe a little easier. Of course, the reason why I partly changed my mind about this matter is because I'm a self-interested and mawkish fool, who is desperate to spend more time with you, and is eager to seize any chance he can... or make it, if he cannot find one."

Sansa smiled. "I'm very thankful that you're trying to be so industrious, my lord."

"It's one of my very best qualities," he nodded, deadpan. She giggled.

"I'm glad that you changed your mind. I know there are dangers, and I don't want anything to hurt us, either, but I wouldn't want to pretend all the time. I can't fake that I'm unhappy with you when I am not – when I've never been so happy in my life." Sansa reddened, but held his gaze bravely. It was difficult. A succession of feelings crossed his expression – awe, gratitude, unmitigated devotion. She fought the urge to look away, flustered by the warmth he radiated so openly.

"Sansa," his voice was a little hoarse. "I want to protect you. I vowed I would do so, for longer than you can imagine, but especially lately. It is a vow I take very seriously. I would never forgive myself if anything..." he cut himself short abruptly, as though the possibility was too appalling to contemplate. "But it's very hard to remember that, when you say such things. It brings me back to the only thing I can never stop thinking about; that I would like to be with you always, and will be, whenever I am able to and for as long as you want me by your side." He paused. "However, I wouldn't be surprised if you got tired of my zealousness very quickly. I would completely understand if you wanted to kick me away like a dog, one day. I'd deserve that; I have it in me to be extremely bothersome." He nodded, furrowing his brow and assuming an expression altogether theatrical.

"Your attempts at discouraging me are not very good," Sansa remarked, smiling at him. "Perhaps it is you who will tire of me quickly. I am not your equal in many things."

He shook his head, looking grave, almost angry. "Don't say that," he said. "Don't think it. You are good enough for me, I assure you – better than I am, in many things. You will see that, in time, Sansa, I hope – and I will show it to you, as well, if I have anything to do with the matter. I will not tire of you. You don't have to fear anything from me."

Sansa did not reply, but had to curtail the little smile that lit up her face, keeping it from widening almost unnaturally.

"So, this is what I wanted to tell you – I hope it's acceptable for you? If not, I will be happy to change the plans yet again."

"Yes, it is acceptable," Sansa nodded, the smile threatening to escape her control.

She saw a reflection of her own smile creep up Tyrion's face by degrees. "Good. I'm very glad." He made a face afterwards. "Unfortunately, duty calls. You will stay home, I trust? No more summons from the castle? Or other invitations showing how popular you are, to my own shame?"

Sansa laughed. "No, I will stay here."

His smile widened further. "I'm happy to hear it."

He did not leave immediately, however, and neither did she encourage him to. They stayed comically in place, while the seconds rolled by.

"Well, this is it," Tyrion said abruptly, in a half playful regretful tone that made her smile. "I'm afraid I have exhausted all my chances to linger. You know where to find me, if you need me." He leaned forward and gently kissed her lips. "I will see you soon – _much_ sooner than yesterday. I promise."

"I'll be waiting for you," Sansa whispered, dizzy with elation. She leaned forward before he could fully pull back from her and kissed him this time. She wasn't as devoid of embarrassment as she had been the day before, when longing and distress had spoken louder than anything else. Tyrion's hands went to her face, keeping her hair from spilling forwards and concealing her cheeks lightly flushed red. His look of awe was something that she knew she would never forget.

"I will do my work much better now, after that," he remarked playfully. She was grateful for his teasing, for it distracted her from her boldness, even though that did not keep her blush from deepening.

She gazed at his retreating form with a smile, this time. It truly soothed and warmed her soul to know that they were not very far from each other – that she was not in a place she would rather not be while he stayed home. She wasn't lonely now, with him, but she felt even less so when she knew he was so close at hand. She truly did feel... happy.

The day was as warm and sunny as any summer day, and she could tell that her fidgety ladies did not wish to be cooped up inside. She gladly sent them outside, a proposition they were quick to accept. Sansa stayed inside the house, watching them from the window as flocked together, giggled and pushed each other through the pathways, disappearing into the gardens. The sunlight flooded in, giving her hair a lighter, carroty glow and warming her face. She closed her eyes, pleased and lulled into a comforting trance.

At length, however, an idea stole into her mind, and the more it settled and grew the more excited she became. Tyrion had said she could go to him if she needed him, but he wasn't expecting her to do it now. There was no one else around, and he often worked alone. The courtyard was out of the way. After what he had told her that morning, she hoped that she would pleasantly surprise him.

She bolted from her chair, studied her reflection in the window to make sure she looked satisfactory, discreetly ran her fingers through her hair and picked up her needlework. She tried to walk normally once she stepped outside, as though this was something she had done many times, not pleasing or exciting, just commonplace.

She saw him at once, sitting at his desk with his head bent low over the pages of thick books. His brow was furrowed. The work was challenging, or perhaps he didn't enjoy it at all. Sansa bit back a smile. Slowly, she began to approach him, gripping her embroidery tighter. She didn't have the chance to walk much further. He looked up and his gaze collided with her tiptoeing form. He stared at her in surprise, but, then, smiled.

"Sansa! What brings you here?"

"I didn't want to disturb you," Sansa ventured timidly. "I thought I could..."

"Yes?" His smile widened a little.

"I thought perhaps I could keep you company... if it pleases you... and if it won't disturb your work." Sansa fought back the urge to awkwardly fidget and look away. She hoped it wasn't too soon – that he hadn't meant he didn't want _this_ right away. That he wouldn't think her foolish for disregarding their safety so soon.

"Please – I would enjoy your company very much. I _do_ need some momentary distraction from this infernal work. Where is Pod? Pod!" His voice echoed through the estate.

At length, his squire came scrambling outside and stopped beside Tyrion.

"My lord?" he asked, slightly out of breath.

"A chair for my lady. She is in need of some sunlight."

Sansa attempted a sheepish smile as the boy's gaze automatically darted to her in surprise. He quickly looked away from her, reddening, and scrambled back inside, to retrieve the requested object.

"Thank you," Sansa murmured shyly as Pod placed the chair a few inches away from her and bowed a little gauchely.

Tyrion was watching him with a mixture of amusement and wariness. "Alright, off you go, now."

Pod rushed away.

"My squire is intimidated by you, it would appear – I only hope that is not due to _certain_ causes."

Sansa looked at him in surprise. "What causes?"

Tyrion smiled, seeming genuinely amused with something she could not guess. "My lady, you cannot be so modest so as not to realize your own beauty?"

Sansa looked as discomfited as Pod had. "I really don't think that's why!" she protested at length, after struggling to get the words out.

Tyrion's smile widened. "Perhaps not," he conceded. "Although it wouldn't surprise me. But it would be a great inconvenience indeed. Pod means a great deal to me – I owe him my life, in fact – but I _really_ wouldn't want to have to dispute my wife with my squire. Or be obliged to do something more than box the poor lad's ears, if he did a little more than stare and blush in your presence."

"You're wrong. He doesn't like me. He doesn't like me at all," Sansa stammered. "He's always like that, isn't he? In any case, could we please talk about something else?"

Tyrion looked thoroughly amused, affection glinting in his eyes, but bit his lips and gave an obedient nod. "As you wish, my lady. Please, be so good as to dictate the matter of the conversation, and I shall dutifully follow suit."

Sansa felt her cheeks throb alarmingly hot, and struggled to gather the shattered threads of her thoughts. She did the only thing she was able to at present; she picked up her embroidery and doggedly resumed her work on it, daring not raise her head for a few minutes. Tyrion, whether he found this funny or not, respected her silence, and she heard the rustle of pages being turned a little while later. The silence soon turned comfortable as they each did their work.

"So," Tyrion resumed leisurely, at last, "did you pick out a dress yesterday?"

Sansa looked up, surprised. "Yes, I did."

"I'm sure you look beautiful in it."

Her heart softened. "It was my hope that you would like to see me in it," she admitted in a bashful whisper.

"I'm sure I will. It's only a pity to remember the occasion the dress will be used in."

"Yes, I thought so too. But I suppose that can't be changed now."

"I suppose not." A pause. "What is it like?"

Sansa blinked. "The dress? You really are interested in knowing what my dress looks like?"

"Of course I am. I take an interest in anything that in turn interests my wife. Come on, describe it to me." Tyrion pushed aside the books and looked up, grinning at her.

"It's, erm..." Sansa struggled to gather her startled thoughts once more. "It's of light grey silk, with green and golden flowers, and a yellow corset."

"That sounds very pretty, as little as I understand about dresses. I look forward to seeing you in it."

Sansa smiled a little, pleased by the compliment.

The cloudless, azure sky stretched on all around them, like a dream or an unknown world just within their reach. She stared and felt that the world had turned upside down, that the sky was in fact the earth, what was palpable beneath their hands and feet, not mud and stone, ugly and bleak. Everyone would be happier if things were like that, she mused.

"It's truly beautiful here, at least," she said, half to herself. "We didn't have weather like this in the North."

Tyrion looked up from his work, a little startled. When she turned to look at him, his expression was tentative. "Does it not... bother you to discuss the past? To think of home, that is? If it does, I assure you don't need to bring it up to make conversation, if you think that's what I want."

Sansa shook her head. "No. I don't mind talking about it with you."

Tyrion smiled, softness and compassion in his eyes. In the sunlight, there were flecks of green in them. "I am honoured that I have your trust on such a sensitive matter, Sansa."

Sansa smiled back at him.

"The sky was never this clear and blue," she resumed thoughtfully. "Even in the most beautiful days. There was always something in between the sky and the earth, sucking up the light. The colours were dull because of it. It feels like I never truly saw the sun shine until I came to the South. And it turns out that it wasn't worth it. I so often wished I could see the sky in the North again."

Tyrion was silent for a while. "Sansa, I'm truly sorry about how things turned out for you. I can't think of a least deserving person for this to happen to."

Sansa smiled, touched, and looked at him. "I was lucky to have found you. I could have been married off to someone so much worse. Like... like Joffrey. But when I saw what you were truly like, and after everything you did to comfort me..." She lowered her head and toyed with her embroidery. It felt like her chest would burst as she remembered everything again. She couldn't lose Tyrion, not ever. She would do everything in her power to make him as happy and safe as he had her.

"I'm very happy that you feel that way about me, although I would rather you didn't think of it, if it makes you sad."

Sansa shook her head, still not looking up. "Thinking of you never makes me sad," she whispered, her eyes lost in the pattern of her gown. She could feel his gaze on her, and, when their eyes met, she felt she was showing him the same expression of the lonely, desperate little girl she had been for so long after arriving in King's Landing. She feared nothing from him. She only wanted him to not doubt that she was happy _now_, with him.

She had not heard that Tyrion had left his chair and walked around the desk until he was standing before her. She looked up at him, startled by his sudden proximity, but easily yielded when he reached out for her hands.

"Would you want to return home now? If you could?" Tyrion asked softly.

She hesitated, not quite knowing how to express her thoughts. "No," she said at length. "Or... I would, but only if you were with me."

Emotion crossed his face. His grip on her hands tightened. "You're very good," he said. His voice was strange, and she could tell this had affected him more deeply than anything she had ever yet said or done. She was both enthralled by and a little scared of the change. "I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do," she rejoined fiercely. "Don't ever think that you don't. It's _not_ true. I would have no other man but you."

He smiled, a little sadly. One of his hand rose to stroke her cheek. It was a lengthy, delicate caress, as though he were afraid to shatter her to pieces, but also could not bear to let her go. She blinked, but remained with her gaze fixed on his as his fingertips gently traced her chin, then inched upward towards her lips. He withdrew his hand before he even reached them, and she blinked again, not understanding why he had, not knowing whether she felt disappointed or like he had done the right thing.

He looked pained to part from her, but eventually returned behind his desk. The heavy, emotional mood dissipated at length, turning into the same companionable silence as they worked on their respective tasks once more.

"I just remembered something interesting," Tyrion spoke up out of the blue. She looked at him, curious. "Many would say that it's hardly an empowering memory, and would maybe question my wits if they heard my tone of sentimentality over it. But you confided in me, and I want to share this with you too."

"What is it?" Sansa asked, growing more interested.

Tyrion was silent for a moment, as though lost in thought, or trying to put his memories in order. "When I was a boy, I had a friend. Riam, he was called, short for Ephrym. He was twelve, my brother's age, and was likely getting too old to engage in foolish play with a little fellow of eight, but he never pushed me away, or acted too grand for me. I truly loved him – I would happily have followed him around anywhere."

"He was the son of a fisherman, Riam – water ran in his veins, instead of blood. I believe he was born swimming. Our friendship would be frowned upon, of course, if anyone learned of it – what is the son of a fisherman, kind and hardworking as he was, compared to the son of Lord Tywin Lannister, the wealthiest man in the Seven Kingdoms, even if I _was_ the disappointing son? But regardless, we played together often, whenever I could sneak out of the castle, and he wasn't busy helping his father."

"Once, when the weather was like this, we went to the beach around Casterly Rock. I didn't know how to swim, and Riam was determined to teach me. To this day, I still don't know how it happened. Perhaps it was a wave, although the sea was still – perhaps Riam's grip on me slipped for just a second. All I know is that one moment I was safe with him, trying to honour his skill and patience with a little bit of inept effort of my own, and the next I was flailing about, swallowing mouthfuls of salt water, and struggling not to sink."

Sansa gasped, horrified. She had no inkling that such a thing had ever happened to Tyrion. "What happened then?" she breathed.

"Luckily for me, Riam caught me quickly, and managed to drag me back to the shore. I was lighter than most other eight-year-old boys, but still I don't know how he managed not to drown as well. In any case, he saved my life. Word spread about my misadventure when I returned home soaked wet – and even though my beloved sister and lord father would have undoubtedly preferred that I _had_ drowned, I was still a Lannister, someone of note, unworthy of it as I was, and questions were asked about what had occurred. I knew that Riam would be flogged, or worse, if either he or I confessed that he had been teaching me how to swim. So I said that I had taken it into my head to jump into the ocean and try to learn how to swim by myself, being the foolish, reckless lad that I was, and that Riam, who was walking past, had jumped in to save me. He returned home unscathed, and I was sent to bed without supper and my ears full of a most dreadful lecture."

Sansa felt a little nauseated. "I... I didn't know," she whispered, stammering. "I never thought that—"

It troubled her how close Tyrion had been to death. She could not imagine it. She could not bear to force herself to. It was better not to think of it at all.

Tyrion was gazing intently at her. "I've indisposed you with this sort of talk."

Sansa shook her head, but could not immediately say anything. Tyrion was silent as well, but waiting for a reply from her, it seemed, rather than seeming upset for himself.

"Were you afraid?" she breathed then, scared that she might disturb him by stirring up the memory of the uncomfortable episode again.

"When I started to drown?"

She nodded.

Tyrion smiled a little. "I was, at first. Terrified, in fact. I thought I was going to die. At a certain point, I was prepared for that. It was only when I had been rescued from the water, and had regained my breath, and could think clearly again, that I remembered... this odd sort of freedom that I felt. To this day, I can't quite explain it... the water was blue, not bright blue, like it is in the summer, but a darker blue, in that part of the sea, and cold. I felt... I felt that I could be happy, there. At peace. A tiny part of my brain actually thought it, amidst my being in the throes of trying to staying afloat. Maybe it was a little hint of death already? Or maybe it was because, in the water, in spite of my lack of capacity to get about, I was no different from anything or anyone else. I was not grotesque. I was just a clumsy young boy, who had yet to learn to swim. No creatures in the sea cared about what I was otherwise. Riam certainly never did – and I was hardly more pleasant to look at at eight than I am now." He paused, lost in thought. His gaze cleared again. "I'm sure this is offensive for many who have been lost at sea, or drowned, or had to suffer the death of anyone dear to them by drowning. But it is what I felt, strange as it may be."

Sansa listened to the tale in silence, barely breathing. She could almost feel and see everything that Tyrion had – the dark, cold water, with something unfathomably comforting in its depths, the rocks casting shadows on the boy struggling to swim, the fear cutting deep into his breast, the sheer, breathless panic, but also that tiny fragment of amazement. If he survived, and learned how to swim, he could find solace here. A safe haven. Had he ever? Or had the sea and its power simply turned into a memory with time?

Tyrion was staring at her. "Do you think me odd for saying this, Sansa? Mad, even?" He was smiling at her, but his eyes were a little guarded, as though he was afraid of her answer.

"No," she said, once she had gathered her thoughts. "I was just trying to picture the story in my head. I would have been so frightened, if it were me. You were very brave – and it was so kind of you to protect your friend."

Tyrion smiled a little. "Riam was my very best friend, the only friend that I had, in truth. Being older and much wiser than I, he did not always think it prudent for a boy of my standing to hang about with someone like _him_ – but I never cared, and, in time, I truly believe that he stopped worrying about it too. I was always happy with him – that I can clearly remember."

"What happened to him?" Sansa whispered, barely daring to breathe.

Tyrion tried to maintain his smile, but a pained shadow crossed his gaze, darkening his features. "Riam died out at sea during a storm, a few years ago. A terrible one, I recall – not even someone with water in his veins like him would have stood a chance." His voice grew quiet.

"I'm so sorry," Sansa whispered, her throat thick with tears. Speaking hurt, as though a knife was sticking out of her neck. "That is very sad. I wish... I wish it hadn't happened."

Tyrion seemed to snap out of a trance and smiled at her, although now it was clear he was making the effort for her benefit alone. "It's a poor choice of a story to tell. I remembered it, however – maybe because of the weather, it is exactly like it was that day – and I wanted to share it with you. You must forgive me, if I disturbed you."

"I'm glad that you trusted me," Sansa said at once. "I'm not angry... or disturbed. I'm very sorry that you had to go through all this. I'm sorry that you lost your friend. But I'm happy that you told me about this, really I am. I only wish there was something I could do to _not_ make you sad about it."

He smiled, honestly this time. "That's very kind of you, and it means a great deal to me – don't doubt it. This is a very old memory, you mustn't concern yourself about it. Old men like me – because I _am_ quite old, compared to you – sometimes dig up old recollections, to torment themselves, or because they're just too filled with memories to be able to help it." He smiled at her again.

"We all have memories like that, and odd thoughts." Sansa paused, remembering her view of the sky, a moment ago. "I know I do."

Tyrion's smile was subtle, but open, now. "Tell me one."

"A memory? Or an odd thought?"

"Either. An odd thought." He looked enthusiastic.

She blushed. "They don't just come like that!"

"Well, try to remember one, then."

She forced her mind to wander back into the past, mixing the recent with the more distant one until they melded together unevenly. She raced past events of old, thresholds and murky depths, until she touched on the rim of her childhood. She saw herself there, from the outside looking in, blurry and small, with her red hair and neat dress that never got dirty, not even outside. She retreated. She did not want to go that far – to snatch away the odd thoughts of that little, dead Sansa, who had not thought anything odd until very recently. Or perhaps she had, even as a child, she had just never seen it that way.

"When I was little," she began eventually, after combing through the disjointed bits and pieces of memories held inside her mind, "I prayed to the old gods with my family. It is the way in the North. I never questioned it – I never thought much about it. To me, at the time, the gods were kind, and they must exist because I was used to hearing that they did all my life. I was so certain that they would be kind to me, and make all my dreams come true."

She paused. "After I came to King's Landing, I could never think of the gods the same way. Any gods. I didn't think they were watching out for me. The way I felt about them became a memory – a very fuzzy one. It couldn't become real again, I just didn't have it in me to believe it."

She paused, longer this time. "Once, I looked up at the sky and there were birds circling each other above my head – and that seemed truly beautiful to me. The only beautiful thing I had seen in a very long time. I realized, then – that, if there _were_ any gods, they must be the birds. It didn't matter that they didn't listen. Maybe that wasn't even the point. They were the only living beings that could touch the sky, and know how the sky was truly like, and they were _free_ – and I realized that was the most important thing, the only thing that truly mattered. They were powerful, and weak at the same time, but so different from us, from _me_, free – like they lived in a completely different world." She shook her head. It was difficult to put her thoughts into words. All she remembered was light and wings and gossamer, fleeting feelings that evaded a description or an explanation. Perhaps Tyrion would think her silly.

He was silent for a very long time, so long it began to alarm her.

"I'm very glad," he said at last, in a low voice, "that what you had to undergo here didn't steal those feelings from your soul. They're quite beautiful, not odd at all – I would expect nothing else from you."

"I don't know how to speak about them," Sansa said shyly.

He smiled at her, tenderness and admiration in his eyes. "You've said enough, I should think – very eloquently. The highest ladies in the land would never be able to express or to recognize such poetry if it hit them in the face."

Sansa chuckled silently, happy that he had understood – and he _had_ seemed to understand, somehow. Something in his silence told her so. Perhaps people wouldn't expect someone like Lord Tyrion to empathize with such feelings, clever and worldly as he was. Even if he didn't entirely, he respected her for having them, and he did his best to value and comprehend them. He did not mock her. That was enough for her.

She thought back to his friend, whom she had to imagine, for she had no inkling of what he had looked like, and to young Tyrion, only vaguely sketched in her mind. Just as terrible as Tyrion almost drowning was his having lost his only friend. Similarly to what she had feared when she had told him about the birds, maybe he didn't think she had understood entirely. She hadn't, in the sense that she had never had a close friendship and his loss was somewhat foreign to her. But she felt it keenly, and regretted it, for his sake. She also didn't know what it was like to drown – the water was a distant, slightly magical entity to her, not to be touched, only seen. A bit like the sky. She might not completely follow or share the workings of his mind – but, as long as they could tell each other this sort of thing, and feel comforted afterwards, instead of regretting that they had shared it, or feeling lonelier still, everything would be well.

"Tyrion," she said. He looked at her. "I'm really sorry," she added helplessly.

He reached out to touch her cheek. "I shouldn't have told you this," he said, partly to her, partly to himself. "But I _wanted_ to – I thought I could trust you with it, morbid as this sort of thing is for a young girl like you to hear."

"I've seen and heard very morbid things," Sansa told him, with a small smile, "you don't need to be afraid of opening your heart to me. I wouldn't want you to. I'm glad to listen to you – I'm glad that you don't think I'm too stupid to understand you."

"Stupid? My lady, you have yet to understand many things about yourself." Tyrion smiled and delicately tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. It fell back before her face, but the gesture left her feeling warm and touched.

"You haven't been working," she said worriedly. "I've only come to distract you. Maybe I should leave."

He gave her a rueful smile, but didn't try to stop her, which indicated that she was right.

"Thank you for your understanding." He kissed her forehead. "I've truly enjoyed our time together this morning, Sansa. Thank you for coming to see me – and for listening to me so kindly without being afraid of me."

She shook her head. "I'm not afraid of you. I will never be."

He smiled. "I'm very glad. We shall see each other later, I promise." He paused, hesitating. "Sansa—"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for telling me all that you did, too. I'm very honoured. I will keep your secrets safe – and I hope that you will always find cause to confide in me."

She smiled, her heart thrumming gladly in her chest. "I don't think you'll ever need to doubt that, my lord."

* * *

He would cherish her secrets, her thoughts. Protect them as tenderly as he did their bearer. Could he? _Would_ he never give her reasons to be afraid of him? The future was an obscure, twisted thing. Who knew what it would bring – who knew if it might decide to toy with them, to utterly change what they had. What they were to each other.

The thought pained him – it squeezed his heart until it ached. It was a sad, broken ache, a childlike ache, before tears become vain and artificial, the result of selfish offences. It would be very easy to hurt him, now – to kill him, in spite of his resolve to stay alive, now more than ever. It would be easy to kill what had tried to kill him – kill _her_ – first. He could not bear to think of losing the red-haired girl who stared at him with such wonder and affection still, who giggled at his jokes, who stood tall and proud to be his. Never had he known something so precious. Never had his tainted hands been trusted to hold such purity – such a treasure. She was necessary to him. Not like a thing, but like air. Like joy. He could not manage to tell himself that he had the exact same importance to her, but he didn't mind. If she loved him only a little, he would be happy.

Not happy as he drowned. Not happy as he destroyed himself, bit by bit. But happy to be whole. Happy to exist, for her sake.

Her face pierced its way through the numbers, the memory of her rustled faintly long after she left, permeating the still afternoon. It soothed him to remember her, to see vague signs of her as he looked up from his work and looked around. Her words, her presence were still vivid, eclipsing the boredom, the impatience he otherwise would have felt. In his breast there was a tranquil, contented stillness. The passion he had just been overwhelmed by was momentarily subdued, as was the breathless urgency that made his feelings keener still, giving them a prophetic tone.

This was an urgency that tore at the flesh – it clamoured from within, demanding things that were not easily realized. The stroke of death came far more easily if one failed to heed its command. But it cleared everything else away – in the anguish that it brought him, he felt oddly complete. This was what kept him standing, now – the only thing that presently gave him a purpose. The only purpose possible. The easiest to uphold.

He felt the faintest twinge of guilt – or something not quite as strong, but part of what might be interpreted as a clumsy sort of principle – as he contemplated the not too distant past. He remembered Shae's face, the last smile she had given him. For a while, he had loved her, and he had believed that love true. He had worried for her safety, just as he did Sansa's. But there had been things he had ignored, in his eagerness to keep her by his side, in his refusal to consider a darker outcome. Their story had been tainted from the moment he had first claimed her and defied the consequences. And his feelings, passionate as they had been, at first, had they been wholly pure, or as strong as he'd believed? He had to face the truth unflinchingly, now that enough time had passed. He had clung to her, and allowed his passion for her to flare high and turn itself to ashes. He had been true, blindly true, for a moment. He had wanted more than he knew they would ever be allowed. He had tried to convince himself that she felt the same way. But she did not belong to him and she never would – would never want to, even if she had the choice. There had always been something between them, something minute, bothersome, dooming them. But he had pretended he did not know her any better, and made more of his own heart than he should have.

And she had known all of this about him, before he had – because she was a woman and women _were_ frightfully good at this sort of thing.

How would things stand with Shae if he hadn't had to marry Sansa? He would never know. Truth be told, he no longer wanted to imagine it. He did know that he and Shae would not have been very happy in the long run, or would have faced something to separate them sooner or later. Shae had known this too. She _had_ always been much cleverer than he. He remembered her words, only a day or two after his wedding, when he was still determined to turn the Fates around for them. _You will love her one day. _Her words had been sad and knowing, the mischievousness gone from her weary eyes. He had rejoiced then, because that apparent dejection must be a sign that she truly loved him. He was quick to reassure her of the contrary, promptly ignoring what he already knew – that one simply could never tell what was to come. He ignored the fact that he was already softly disposed towards his young wife all the faster. But Shae had been right. She understood him much better than he had ever begun to understand her, he saw it now.

He had not been surprised to hear that she had left. Gone away in the night, it seemed, without telling anyone. By that time, her prophecy had started to do its work on him. He had still felt guilty. But he knew, at least, that now she would be safe, somewhere in the world. She would not die because of him. A good man might love her properly and marry her. Her heart would not be broken for long – if it was indeed broken. He had never fully known Shae's heart – it was a complex thing, far more complex than he could pretend to understand, and he no longer fooled himself with romantic notions or flimsy certainties to distract him of that fact.

Who could say who had let down who? Who could fault his former lover for wishing to slip away to save herself from death, ruin or just heartache? Or, perhaps, even, to allow him to have a chance at happiness with his wife? Whether that had been an ultimate act of love or merely a kindness – to both himself and Sansa – he would never be certain. He no longer needed to be. She had done the right thing, and they were, all three, the better for it. Perhaps Shae had known this all along, too – been far more prescient than he could ever have been.

Was it black-hearted of him to not regret the way things had gone, in the end? To be thankful that Shae's departure had helped him realize what was already lying dormant beneath? Was it selfish that he would not want to relive or alter the past, if it meant he would lose Sansa and all they had become to each other? Perhaps it was. But some situations, regardless of one's efforts, were simply never honourable. The outcome had to be wrenched bloodily out of a thorny path. He had known this for a long time. He had seen it more times than he wished to recall – for it _did_ hurt him, in spite of what people might think. He had no fondness for this sort of thing. He just knew that it happened, and that it must be dealt with. Ignorance and denial were worse, infinitely worse. Even if they seemed better, at the time.

But he would be lying if he said he did not have a partiality for delicate things. Softer things. Things in need of protection. Things that were a comfort to his soul. They spoke to him so much more deeply now. But perhaps he'd always had that fondness, that need, buried deep within him, ever since the time when he was that boy in the water, struggling to swim, struggling to be set free.

* * *

She was more at ease as she waited for him to come to her later that day. She knew he was home, and that nothing would be likely to get him out of it by now. She could imagine no greatest pleasure than properly sharing a meal with Tyrion and talking again, even if she had little to say about her own day, and his had been spent doing work she did not pretend to understand.

She made a mental note to remember the dishes he liked best and to have them prepared more often. Surely he would like that, after a whole day looking over pages filled with numbers. There wasn't much she could do for him, but she could do this. Men always enjoyed a hearty meal, it seemed.

She checked the table, making sure the final touches she had given it were appropriate, and sat down, anxiously awaiting him. Her heart leaped in her chest when she heard his footsteps. He lingered where he was for a moment, talking to someone she could not see, and then entered the dining room. She got up and grinned at him as he approached her. He grinned back at her.

"Have you finished your work for the day, Tyrion?"she asked. She shyly stepped forwards and pulled up a chair for him.

"Now, Sansa, shouldn't _I_ be doing that for you?" he admonished her light-heartedly.

She gave him a guilty little smile, but stuck to her resolution regardless. When he was sitting down, she went back to the other side of the table, sitting before him.

"Yes, I have, to answer your question, and I am very happy to be done. I am famished, I must say – you will have to forgive my appalling table manners." She smiled. "How was your day, Sansa?"

"Agreeable. But I didn't do very much," she added, almost guiltily.

"But you have a number of pastimes, if I recall. And you excel at all of them."

Sansa flushed slightly. "Maybe. But perhaps you would not think them useful."

"I have the highest respect for ladies' pastimes. What else could make this grim world a little more beautiful?"

Sansa smiled. "That's very kind of you."

"I promise you that I'm only speaking honestly. I'm sorry that you felt a little lonely today, Sansa. I wish I could remedy that, but it's difficult during the day. Not out of any wish of mine."

"Yes, I know. Don't worry about it. I get by, and I'm happy to welcome you later."

Tyrion looked gratified and touched by this.

"I overheard one of your ladies sing, once – I never had the pleasure of listening to you, but I'm sure you must be highly accomplished at that. I should like to hear you sing, one day."

Sansa blushed deeply, not expecting such a request. "I... if you like."

Tyrion chuckled. "I don't want to make you flustered. If this is too unexpected, I'll be glad to wait. Sometime in the future, when you see fit."

Sansa felt relief wash over her. She wanted to make sure she would do her best, and she had the feeling that her best wouldn't happen tonight. "Yes, perhaps then, if you wish it," she said coyly.

The room was awash with the dense, fatty fragrance of the dinner foods; roasted duck with garlic and honey sauce – Tyrion seemed particularly partial to that –, meat pie with sausage and mushrooms, trout lying in a bed of vegetables, slathered in a buttery sauce and with round lemon slices atop them. There were whole loaves of bread, and dark, sweet wine. There was fruit, too, some of it quite exotic, from outside Westeros, and then the sweetmeats – lemoncakes, her favourite, honeycakes, fruitcakes, cakes made of eggs and milk and fried in fat, oozing the most delicious aroma. She felt her mouth watering as she discreetly inhaled, and almost entertained the childish desire to steal one of the pastries without eating the proper courses first.

She delicately ate her roasted duck, watching while Tyrion dug into his with great relish.

"You _must_ forgive me, Sansa," he said after he swallowed. "I'm not usually like this. But I am really very hungry, and the roasted duck smells almost unbearably delicious. Anarya is a remarkable cook – I am often suspicious of what she does to make her food so delectable."

Sansa smiled. "It's alright. All men lose their manners before food."

"Spoken like someone who knows what they're saying."

She laughed. "I've seen it often – in Winterfell _and_ in King's Landing. Lords or not, all men forget themselves before a full table. Perhaps that's why they're often so grouchy when they're hungry."

Tyrion chuckled. "Remarkably well observed. And I wish that all male afflictions could be solved with a tasty meal – but, alas, we're not quite such simple creatures. To my regret, I assure you."

"Perhaps we should try it. Maybe it would work."

He smiled, amused. "Maybe. The world would certainly be a more pleasant place."

The candlelight flickering off the walls and casting pools of shadow on the table gave off a warm and cozy glow. Sansa's heart was filled with a pleasant, homey feeling. She wished all their nights could be like this. That the world would never trouble them again. Why _couldn't_ life be like this? What was so difficult about it? Why must men – and women – be cruel and twisted and persist in their own ways, never resting, making themselves and others unhappy in their frenzy to shape the world according to their views – or simply to sow destruction for its own sake? She still could not understand. She didn't think she would ever want to. No, even if someone told her that was the right way, she would never be able to believe it.

"Is there something troubling you, Sansa? You look pensive."

She started in her chair. "Forgive me," she said weakly. "I was just thinking."

"Something you want to share?"

"I was thinking," she said, after a while, "that I should like things to always be this way. That I don't see why the world must be bad, and why people hurt other people. Everyone could be happy, if they chose."

"Ah, yes," Tyrion nodded. "It would, indeed, make life much easier, and infinitely more pleasant. But let me tell you a secret, Sansa, although I'm sure you already have an inkling of what I'm about to say: people don't truly _want_ to be happy. We most of us are twisted creatures who thrive in our own misery and in complicating things. Why? It's easier to complain, I suppose; it's easier to destroy something rather than making it right, to tear someone down rather than comfort them. Perhaps it's a glitch in our minds, that may – or may not – be resolved in another few thousands of years. It's always been this way, though – the gods made a severely flawed world, for all their own perfections."

Sansa stared at him, feeling a mixture of dispiritedness and curiosity. "I don't think I ever thought of it that way. I just know that I can't immediately believe things are good, the way I did before. But that doesn't mean I don't wish they were."

"And perhaps that, Sansa, makes you one of the few normal people in this world."

"Do you think so?" she asked in surprise. "But this isn't anything special. It's just..."

"Normal?"

She smiled, won over.

"Are _you_ a twisted creature, Tyrion?" she asked then, in a small voice.

"I'm afraid I am. Perhaps not as twisted as some, but in some respects, quite as bad as they are."

"I don't believe that," Sansa said firmly. "I don't think you are."

Tyrion smiled, somewhat wistfully. "Haven't you heard of the mischief I've been involved in, Sansa? The things I've said and done, before you and I knew each other?"

"Yes, but... that doesn't mean you're like everybody else. I don't believe that you're bad. No, you're not. Even if you tell yourself you are. Even if you do things that are sometimes... wrong. You're not like them. You're good."

There was a very long pause. Tyrion stopped eating, and merely stared at her. Sansa held her breath, trying to read the emotions in his face. She had never seen a man display such fierceness of feeling, an almost perfect mix of sadness and happiness, of gratitude and something else she couldn't identify, but which seemed good to her.

"Do you mean that, Sansa?" Tyrion asked quietly, his voice a little husky. "Aren't you just saying that out of your compassionate heart?"

"Of course not," she furrowed her brow, almost indignant.

At length, Tyrion smiled. He looked so grateful, he seemed almost sad. "I deeply appreciate that, Sansa. Don't think I will forget it."

A loaded, significant silence fell over them, seeming to make the room shrink.

"Your duck will grow cold, Tyrion," she pointed out shyly. Her cheeks were aglow, the depth of his feelings, the way he was looking at her, making her self-conscious. She didn't think she had said anything special, only the truth – although, now that she thought of it, that _would_ be very special to someone who had undergone what Tyrion had. But she still didn't want to think of it as a great boon she had bestowed on him, nor did she want to see herself as anything greater than she was. She looked down at her plate, willing the hotness in her cheeks and neck to subside and, a short while later, she heard Tyrion's cutlery scraping the plate on the other side of the table.

When the meal was over, and they went to their room, Sansa instinctively dismissed her maid. She wasn't quite sure why, but she knew that, after everything that had taken place that day, she didn't want someone else to disturb hers and Tyrion's intimacy. Perhaps that would even offend him. A little breathless, with clumsy hands, she proceeded to undress herself.

"May I?" Tyrion's voice was soft and patient behind her.

She nodded, feeling a new rush of warmth on her face, and knelt. She stayed still as his hands, slowly but surely, untied her laces. He had never done anything like this for her. The brief touch of his hands on her back as he loosened her corset seemed almost a caress. She looked down at her knees, simultaneously confused and pleased by the contact. She attempted to dull the sensitivity of all the other areas in her body and try her utmost to concentrate only on the area that felt the fleeting brush of his fingers. She willed her mind to think of nothing else. It seemed like she was learning about a new side of him, through this. A side she definitely knew existed – she _had_ heard plenty of scandalous tales about his dalliances with women –, but which she had never seen showed to her. Even if it wasn't quite the same thing, she sensed the flicker of something similar, still in its beginning, waiting to grow.

When the dress was hanging loose about her frame, she half turned and looked at Tyrion with discomfited, slightly panicked eyes.

"I'll turn the other way," he assured her gently.

He did as promised, and she let the dress drop, groping quickly for her nightgown. When she was safely dressed, she began to undo the braids that twisted around her head.

"You may turn, now, Tyrion," she called softly. She felt guilty now for having all but pushed him away, but she did not know how to begin to act if he saw her undressed. It wasn't that she distrusted him. She just didn't know what to do or what to think if that happened. Trying to reassure him of that only terrified her all the more. Maybe he wouldn't be disappointed. Maybe he would understand. She only needed to grow more courage, and then this wouldn't happen forever.

Tyrion peeked courteously over his shoulder, and then began to turn around. "I shall follow suit, if that isn't inconvenient to you."

"No, it's not," she said in a small voice. He begun to undress, and Sansa afforded him the same courtesy he had her, sitting down at her vanity and began to slowly brush her hair as she waited. The comb yanked at the tangles, but she barely felt it. She heard the rustle of his clothes as he removed them, but did not look at him.

He was finished not long afterwards. Their eyes met as he walked towards her, and he stopped before her. He reached out, and she held her breath; for a moment, she thought he was going to withdraw his hand, like he had in the morning, and she wanted to tell him not to; she didn't want that, she hadn't wanted it then. But the words stuck in her throat.

He seemed to guess what she was thinking, for he held out his hand closer to her still, touched her cheek, his fingertips tracing around the contours of her cheekbone, and then advanced into the thick mass of her hair to gently grasp a dark red strand. He had never done that before. Her heart grew warm and full, dispelling her confusion. She watched him attentively, eagerly, as he ran the coppery hairs one by one through his fingers as though he had never seen a thing so beautiful.

She didn't want the moment to end, but something threatened to choke her, propelling her into action. She leaned forward just the tiniest bit, assessing the expression on his face. Tyrion halted his movements and stared back at her. His eyes were vulnerable and alert, very blue in the candlelit room. Had she not known that he loved her, she would have known now. His eyes were turned on her, open and defenceless, endlessly searching, as though she was everything he depended on – the only thing keeping him standing. She remembered his tale and thought that young Tyrion might have had eyes like these.

She held out her own hand, and it trembled for a second as she hesitated. Then, she gently traced the length of his scar with her thumb. It was purplish now, running obliquely through his face. She felt the anguish in her features. "Does it hurt?" she whispered.

He smiled. "Not anymore." His voice was all but a whisper itself.

Then she kissed him. Her lips quivered a little as they touched his. It occurred to her that she had never truly felt how it was like to kiss Tyrion until now. A heady curiosity, like a new, unknown sense, rose inside her, as well as a prickle of apprehension. His mouth was soft and gentle against hers. She pulled back from him, only a fraction of an inch, and stared at him with wide, searching eyes. An unmistakable dissatisfaction sat inside her, tugging at her chest. This time, she knew that they wouldn't stop here. That there would be something more, something new.

He framed her face when she slightly leaned in to kiss him again. His lips were slow and tender as they searched hers. He knew what he was doing, and had kindly subdued that side of him for her own comfort. She did not. Fear clawed at her stomach.

She felt the warmth of his tongue against her mouth, and her heart skipped a beat. Her stomach clenched with fear, and she almost started back from the foreign sensation. She willed herself not to, however. At length, the feeling grew ticklish and warm and pleasant. More by instinct than anything else, she parted her lips. _It shouldn't be hard, _she told herself. _It should be easy. _But although her lips had been kissed more than once by different men, she had never kissed any of them with her tongue. The thought used to fill her with both disgust and secret excitement when she was younger. But back then she was a green girl at Winterfell, like the sleeping blue winter rose during spring, waiting to bloom.

That minute, fleeting prickle of revulsion at the strangeness of the kiss was gone quickly, to her relief. She felt breathless now. And curious, wanting to find out how this went, wanting more of it, somehow. When her tongue met his, a hungry warmth filled her from head to toe. They pulled back slightly and, drawn back towards each other, kissed again. The novelty of the moment was such that they simply couldn't put an end to it so soon. And it no longer felt strange, for some reason. Only right.

They pulled back slowly, as slowly as they had kissed, as slowly as they had crept closer to each other. She couldn't look away from him, and his gaze never wavered for a minute.

"I haven't frightened you, Sansa," Tyrion said in a low voice, searching her features with an anxious look, "have I?"

She shook her head mutely, too strangled by all the new sensations that had washed over her to be able to reply. The blush that had reddened her cheeks and whose presence she had missed until now had grown faded and cold.

"If this has made you uncomfortable, you only have to tell me. We don't have to do it until you say it is right."

"It hasn't," she said, and the flush returned with its full strength. She looked away for a moment, then squarely met his eyes. "I don't mind that we do this again. I... I want to." Her voice faded and she swallowed. Tyrion remained staring at her, perhaps assessing the truth of her words. But she didn't mind it. Now that she remembered it, the fear and the awkwardness evaporated and she could only cling to how sweet and pleasant it had felt.

The candlelight danced across the walls. It seemed odd that night had fallen upon the sunny morning they had shared. Erasing it, already turning it into a memory. Nothing lasted except when someone remembered it. And even then, it might not be forever.

"Tyrion," she whispered. She knew it was the right thing to do, to say, after this day, after everything. She wouldn't let the night wash everything away, she wouldn't let the memory of this day and night be dimmed into something of less importance, or grow uncertain with the years. What kept her from saying it, when she had been feeling it for so long? Why not tell him once more, when she so wanted him to know, to always know it? "Tyrion, I love you." There was an almost helpless childlike quality to her tone.

"And I love you, Sansa," he avowed, his voice low and firm. There was a sound of swords and fire to it, of honesty and protection. "I do, most truly."

There was nothing else to be said. Nothing else to do. Until the day the world changed for them again, and beyond, this would always be the only truth, the only thing to remember.

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